


(Hopefully) (Completely) Yours

by Links



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Anthea (Sherlock) is the Best PA, Fluff and Smut, Idiots in Love, Love Confessions, M/M, New Year's Fluff, Pining, Posh boy, Sharing a Bed, Trans Character, UST, art mystery, it's for a case (sort of), mention of transphobia
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-12-21
Updated: 2018-03-09
Packaged: 2019-02-18 03:03:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 19
Words: 30,213
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13091070
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Links/pseuds/Links
Summary: Instead of enjoying New Year at 221b with his flatmate/best friend/crush and taking his courage in both hands to try to tell him how he feels, John Watson finds himself on a journey to France, bickering with Sherlock about the Da Vinci Code, sipping fine wine and... sharing a single bed.Meanwhile, in London, Mycroft might have to deal with a whole another problem... A problem called Gregory Lestrade.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> I know, I know... Starting a new story shortly after finishing my behemoth of a novel, I must be mad. Blame my Muse, who apparently wanted a break from all the angst in A&O and was in a festive mood today...

“What do you mean, there’s only one room left?” John asked with what he hoped was a winning smile, although he doubted it could somehow change the whole situation, which was quickly looking more and more like an impending disaster.

The young girl behind the counter – which has been recommended as the only one able to talk to him without all the horrible “ze” and “tis” that French people used to say when speaking English - peered at him doubtfully, as if he was the only specimen left of an odd alien people, too dumb to understand her language.

“Exactly what it means, Sir,” she slowly said, her tone making John gritting his teeth. “We only have one room left.” (She shrugged, glancing back at the computer screen.) “You’re lucky, as we’re usually full at this moment, as the end of the year festivities are in full swing…”

John wasn’t feeling especially lucky right now. He took a deep breath, trying to settle his nerves.

“A double bed room, then?” he tried again.

She looked up once more at him and although her face remained inscrutable, he got the distinct feeling she was now laughing at him.

“Sorry, Sir. Only one bed. But if it is any comfort to you, it’s a _very large_ bed.”

He bit his tongue. It would have been useless to retort that no bed would be large enough to accommodate the three of them – Sherlock, John and the cumbersome, bordering-on-maddening crush John got on his flatmate/friend/fucking crazy genius I can’t live without (all of three mentions being perfectly applicable, thank you very much). 

“Do you want a bit more time to decide, Sir?” the girl asked, her bland voice making him cringe. “I’m afraid I won’t be able to give you more than half an hour though,” she adds, looking up at the clock above her desk. “We’ve got so many last-minute requests, you understand…”

“That’s all right, we’ll take it,” a deep, oh so very familiar voice suddenly said behind John. One second later, Sherlock appeared at his side, in all his Belstaff-y glory, shooting a large and completely unconvincing – at least in John’s eyes – grin to the receptionist while giving her the Visa card provided by Mycroft. He then turned to John.

As always, meeting this clear gaze, much too knowing for his own taste made John’s insides twist and flip in a now very familiar dance. He tried to hide it behind a little smile.

A smile which was quickly wiped off his face by Sherlock’s comment.

“What were you waiting for to pick this room? I don’t know about you, but I don’t really fancy sleeping outside at this time of the year!”

John rolled his eyes, swallowing back  _in extremis_  the “drama queen” already rolling on his tongue.

“Don’t get your knickers in a twist, all right? I was simply enquiring about the price and…”

“How many times do I have to tell you all the costs of this charming, impromptu trip are borne by his Highness, hum?” Sherlock retorted irritably. “Really, it’s enough that we find ourselves buried in this little French hole!” he added, not paying the slightest attention to the receptionist frowning at his derisive comment. John tried to placate her with a smile, but considering the way she nearly threw the room’s key at them, her feathers weren’t so easily smoothed.

“Room seven, first floor. Have a nice stay, gentlemen,” she declared, her expression leaving no doubt as to this wish’s sincerity.

Of course, Sherlock didn’t bother replying, pocketing the key instead before sauntering to the stairs. John smothered a sigh.

God dammit.

* * *

 

To think that at this moment he could have been safely ensconced in his armchair, within the walls of their flat, bickering with Sherlock over his own New Year’s plan (he didn’t have any, except for spending it at 221b, but he hasn’t told Sherlock yet) and secretly loving each minute of it while pretending to huff and puff faced with Sherlock’s arguments – “Why would you bother going out for overpriced meals and a few fireworks, hum?”

But no, his Highness Mycroft had to call upon them, turning up at their flat like some malevolent deity, riling up Sherlock and exchanging barely veiled barbs with him, until John, annoyed at this interruption and fed up with this display of brotherly animosity, had snapped at him

“What’s that all, Mycroft?”

Mycroft had raised an eyebrow, examining him from head to toe – an inspection which didn’t impress John in the least, having built up a large tolerance to this kind of gaze, thanks to Sherlock.

“You seem a bit on edge, dear Doctor… Are you feeling well?”

“Spoiler alert, Mycroft”, Sherlock had cut in, using an expression John had taught him a few days before. “He’d feel even better if you just go away now.”

John couldn’t help but giggle, shooting an amused look at his madly adorable flatmate – _must stop thinking that, dammit!_ – before answering

“I’m all right, thank you for asking. Now what do you want, Mycroft?”

His Highness had smiled then -  a smile which didn’t reach his eyes.

“Funny you should ask, John, as I have indeed something in mind for you both…”

“Not interested!” Sherlock had shouted from the kitchen.

“Not even for a trip to France, all expenses paid?” Mycroft had retorted, pretending to examine his nails. “Of course, should you be successful, your bank account would be credited with a fine sum.”

That’s when things had started to go pear-shaped.

* * *

 

“John!”

He startled, a bit surprised to find himself lingering in the lobby, his hastily thrown together suitcase lying at his feet. He raised his head, looking up just in time to see Sherlock coming down from the stairs, a frankly annoyed look on his face.

“Are you coming or not?” he impatiently asked, ignoring the startled looks from clients and staff alike. “And bring the suitcase!”

Then, without waiting for John’s answer, he turned on his heel and rushed again upstairs.

“Typical”, John grumbled under his breath before lifting the suitcase and following the madman.

The madman you’re about to share a bed with.

He was well and truly fucked.

 


	2. Chapter 2

As soon as he stepped in the room, suitcase in hand, John knew it was even worse than he has thought.

He didn’t pay any attention to the room’s general decoration, from the colour on the walls to the little, tastefully-framed paintings, each one depicting the peaceful beauty of the Loire Valley. His whole attention was instead focused on the bed in the middle of the room. A very large bed, the receptionist has said, he remembered, feeling a fiercely ironic laugh bubbling in his throat. Well, he wasn’t aware of the French standards as regards the length – and especially the width – of beds, but he would never have considered the one under his eyes as very large.

Never in a million years.

Goodness.

He swallowed hard, doing his best to chase away the thoughts running through his head, spurred on by this definitely-not-large-enough bed.

Sherlock’s tall, slim body buried under the covers; His dark curls spread on the pillowcase, an inky, cleverly rendered untidy mass John was more and more itching to run his fingers through; the warmth created by their bodies, brushing against his skin and creating a dangerous intimacy between them.

But what John was really afraid of was Sherlock’s softness.

Something so very rare, so very well-guarded that it has taken him months of living together to finally glimpse it.

Once he has caught sight of it, he couldn’t let it go.

Looking for it on Sherlock’s face, when he called John his “conductor of light”, when they laughed together over Indian takeaway at 2 a.m or when Sherlock was deliberately riling up Lestrade’s officers just to make John turn his head away, smothering a grin.

Finding it again in Sherlock’s eyes, as they looked at each other, seated at the back of a cab, John more aware than ever of the constantly strengthening link between them.

That softness was a dangerous thing.

It makes John want – want to come closer to his friend, reducing the distance between them until it was fading into non-existence; want to put a supporting hand on Sherlock’s back whenever he was retreating within oneself, growing tired of the outside world and his sometimes very limited capacity for tolerance and acceptance; want to tell him “You’re not alone, I’m here with you, we’re in this together.”

John let out a deep sigh.

He could deal with inconvenient lust and unwanted hormones – he was no stranger to this kind of sticky situations, when the only solution was to get rid of these feelings because their target remained unattainable.

(Hello, James Sholto.)

It was a whole different matter with Sherlock, however. The man who declared himself “married to his work” and proudly stated that “sentiment is a chemical defect found on the losing side” was the same one who fought tooth and nail to ensure that his landlady would never have to see again the face of her former husband.  

The same man who silently offered John a cup of tea when he came back home after a long shift, too exhausted to make it himself.

True, he often appeared cold and prickly as a porcupine, indifferent to the sometimes desperate pleas of his clients. In the first days of living together with Sherlock, John hasn’t understood how the very man who has turned his life of early retired serviceman upside down, shaking him out of his apathy in a single night and inspiring him with the desire to enjoy life again to his full extent could behave in such a way to the people requesting his help.

He had broached the subject with Sherlock several times, not quite daring to ask him “why”.

The only answer he got was raised eyebrows followed by a swift rebuke or a mocking reply.

Except for the last time, during which he has apparently caught Sherlock off guard, in a rare moment when all his defences were down.

His friend has glanced at him, his puzzled frown giving way to an expression John has never seen yet on Sherlock’s sharp features – annoyed resignation.

As if he was unable to revisit again this sore spot.

“It’s complicated,” he has mumbled. “You wouldn’t understand.”

He has the turned his head away, looking through the window.

“Drop it. Please.”

And John has complied, even as burning questions were buzzing through his mind.

The violin’s song has echoed afterwards till late in the night.

Softness and vulnerability.

Who knew that this unusual mix was enough to make him want to fall down on his knees and offer comfort and affection to the one man who boldly professed he didn’t need it and – even worse – despised it entirely?

And that was the crux of the problem, wasn’t it.

John has let himself falling for his best friend, his flatmate and, as a consequence, he found himself now between the devil and the blue sea.

Should he give himself away and risk losing everything – the Baker Street flat, the thrilling chases around London and first and foremost, the very companionship which has saved his life?

Should he try to remain silent and carry on repressing his feelings?

He hasn’t yet decided and now he was afraid that this disastrous situation would cheat him out of this choice.

* * *

 

He was glaring at the infamous bed, imagining sawing it up in a messy stack and setting fire to it, when Sherlock chose that moment to go out of the bathroom, fully dressed – thank God for small mercies – a warm, slightly musky cloud wafting in the air in his wake.

“I warn you, that shower is a real disaster, barely any pressure in it and how dare they saying that it is a comfortable hotel, I… John?”

One look at Sherlock’s faintly flushed cheeks – that shower must be working after all – and John knew he was unable to face him.

Not right now, anyway.

He needed… time.

 “I… forgot something in the lobby,” he hastened to say, his hand already turning the door’s handle, “back in a sec!”

He closed the door in a rush, ignoring the gleam of discomfort in Sherlock’s gaze.

* * *

 

He didn’t stop in the lobby, going on his way until he was outside, wintry air cooling his face.

“You’re losing it, Watson,” he mumbled under his breath, staring at Amboise’s _château_ on the other side of the Loire river, standing tall and proud above the water and lit up with all kinds of Christmassy ornaments.

He took a moment to collect his thoughts before fishing his mobile from his pocket. He was going to have a bill shock when he received his monthly invoice, John thought with wry amusement, as he was speed-dialling Greg’s number.

He didn’t have to wait long for Greg to answer.

“John! What’s up, mate?”

“Greg,” he replied, cutting to the chase. “I need your help.”

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Writing this chapter - and the banter - was great fun, hope you'll enjoy it too!

 John heard Greg’s hitch in his breath over the phone before he asked in a voice which has managed to lose in a second all its previous warmth.

“What do you mean, ‘you need my help’? Dear Lord, John, don’t tell me it’s one of those “you better rush to the rescue” kind of calls! I’m not your permanent “bail me out of jail” card, I have better things to…”

“Calm down, Greg, I promise it’s nothing of this kind,” John cut him off, rolling his eyes while at the same time he couldn’t stop the amused grin blooming on his lips. He supposed Greg has a point, though, considering his common past with Sherlock.

Not that John had been better at not involving the DI when the need for police’s help arose.

“I would believe it when I know where both of you are,” Greg retorted in a tone tinged with disbelief.

“We’re in France, in some little town called Amboise. Are you satisfied now, Mister Doubting Thomas?”

Greg let out a noncommittal noise.

“Assuming you’re telling the truth, why do you need my help, then? (It was Greg’s turn to sound amused.) Unless you absolutely want my idea as regards the holiday souvenirs to bring me back and offer me next time we see each other, hum?”

“Ha bloody ha. You’re so very funny.”

“Thanks. Seriously, John, what’s the problem?”

“I…”

John stopped, suddenly angry with himself. Why has he thought that calling Greg was a good idea? God dammit, he was nearing forty years old, he has survived Afghanistan and being called “Three Continents Watson”, he should know by now how to deal with unwanted feelings! He was being utterly, completely ridiculous and he should definitely apologize to Greg before hanging up and…

“John.”

John definitely didn’t wince when he heard the familiar comfort colouring Lestrade’s voice.

“Yeah?” he croaked.

“Tell me you booked two rooms.”

Leave it to Greg to touch the rawest nerve John has ever felt.

He heard himself replying in a bland voice

“No. We’re in the same room and, if I want to sleep tonight, I’m definitely going to share the bed with him.”

A long, suffering groan reached his ears before the DI spoke again.

“God, John, what were you thinking? Are you such a glutton for punishment?”

“That’s not my doing, all right? Mycroft sent us both here and…”

“Mycroft?”

Greg’s voice immediately changed as soon as he heard the name and John allowed himself a smug little smile.

“Yeah, Mycroft, as in Sherlock’s brother, in case you’ve forgotten. You know, the tall, stuffy, pompous and not very pleasant guy you inexplicably seem to have a soft spot for?”

“Fuck off, Watson,” Greg automatically growled. “It’s the pot calling the kettle black.”

“Sherlock is neither stuffy nor pompous,” he retorted before rolling his eyes at himself. Seriously, what was wrong with him?

“Nah, he’s just totally unpredictable, to say the least. And emotionally constipated to boot.”

“A common trait in the Holmes family, I believe.”

Greg huffed a soft laugh before becoming serious again.

“To come back to what you told me earlier… How come you find yourself in such a situation?”

“You mean, the single-bed one?”

“Of course, genius.”

“Because, at this time of the year,” John mimicked the receptionist’s voice, “we have been lucky to find a room which was still free when we arrived here?”

“You mean to tell me that Mycroft…”

John tried to ignore the fondness in Greg’s voice when he pronounced this name. Good Lord, was he so obvious when he was talking about Sherlock?

“Mister “I am basically the British government”, the DI resumed, “couldn’t manage to book rooms for you when he sent you off to France?”

“He said he has made it but, when we came to the hotel earlier, they’ve lost the booking and they haven’t got a free room and…Oh.” John abruptly cut himself off, sighing resignedly. “I’m an idiot.”

“Just a love-addled one. It’s my duty to inform you, as your mate and personal agony aunt…”

“Pot kettle, Greg!”

“Hush, let me finish. I was saying it might be the opportunity to sort yourself out.” Greg’s tone lost its teasing quality. “You know, prepare the ground, make him notice you’ve stopped dating and give him a subtle hint…”

“The fact that I’ve stopped dating should have been telling, don’t you think?” John couldn’t stop repeating the well-rehearsed argument. He paced up and down the street, biting his nail nervously while waiting for Greg’s answer.

“And I keep telling you, that’s Sherlock we’re talking about,” Greg thwarted him with ease. “A true genius, but not when feelings are concerned. That’s uncharted territory for him, you’ll have to guide him through it…”

John snorted.

“As if Sherlock would ever accept to be guided, least of all in a…”

He stopped before uttering the word he got on the tip of his tongue.

He didn’t dare saying it aloud. Irrationally afraid that Greg was going to laugh at him, mock him for saying that he wanted a…

He shook his head, trying to clear his mind.

“John. You can’t go on like this,” Lestrade insisted. “Don’t be a coward…”

“Oh, that’s rich coming from you!”

“That’s why,” Greg spoke a bit louder, “I’m going to handle this whole mess…”

“How?” John asked, truly mystified.

“Getting in touch with his Pompousness,” Greg replied in a flat voice, doing his best not to give his nerves away. “Trying to see if this mission was truly important. You never know, I might need Sherlock’s input for one of my cases…”

“Greg, do you seriously believe lying to…?”

“I’m not going to lie, just embellishing the truth a little bit! And it also means the next round of pints at the pub is on your tab.”

John remained silent for a moment before bursting out laughing.

“Oh… God…”

“Just Greg will be enough, thanks.”

He could hear the smile in Lestrade’s voice.

“We’re both madmen.”

“Yep. And you’re going to need all the madness you can find to talk to Sherlock, you know.”

“Madness? Are you sure it isn’t courage?”

“If you want. Just… think about it, okay?”

Greg’s seriousness made him choke back his mirth. Heart racing in his chest, John braced himself to give voice to the very thing he has been dreading since he has realized the depth for his feelings for his flatmate and friend.

“If… If it doesn’t work? If by telling him, I lose everything?”

Greg gave a great sigh at the other end of the line.

“No guarantees here, mate. One thing for sure – you won’t know until you ask.”

Silence engulfs them both until Greg breaks it.

“If it’s any consolation to you…”

“Go ahead.”

“I’ve still got a couch in my living room. And you won’t have to share it with me!”


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Muse is having a lot of fun tormenting these two idiots and I clearly can't resist her...

Sherlock observed John’s departure with a frown.

His first impulse was to follow him in the stairs and ask him why he was behaving in such a manner – of course, he hasn’t forgotten anything in this damned lobby, a child of five would have seen through this pitiful excuse! – but, for once in his life, Sherlock showed restraint.

He waited during a few seconds, his ears pricking up at the slightest sound, but to no avail.

John has fled.

Again.

Sherlock sighed, sat up at the end of the bed and, for once, forgot the etiquette he had painstakingly learned when he was a child – he let himself fall down against the soft coverlet.

If Mycroft had been here at this very moment, no doubt he would have cast a horrified look at his younger brother before subjecting him to his concern in the disguise of scoffing remarks, jabbing and prodding until Sherlock snapped at him.

Mycroft would have rolled his eyes and complained of his juvenile behaviour, but in truth, he would have been reassured, bringing in return to Sherlock a highly needed dose of familiar comfort.

It was their way of communicating with each other, the common language they had developed and perfected during Sherlock’s youth. It wasn’t always effective and it had sometimes caused grievous misunderstandings between them, but then who could boast never to have had any spat with their loved ones?

He closed his eyes, tried to focus on his last exchange with Mycroft and the heavy hint his speech has contained.

_“Ever heard of the Da Vinci Code, brother mine? As I know you’re not always up-to-date with the cultural trends of these last fifteen years…”_

_“You call this “a cultural trend”? The quality of your standards in that matter has tragically declined then. It barely qualifies as bland entertainment rubbish on my own scale. So sorry to hurt your feelings on this one, Mycroft…”_

_His brother’s smile was more a grimace than anything else, but there was an amused glint in his dark eyes._

_“It may be rubbish, but the mystery surrounding Da Vinci’s life has never stopped intriguing men. Or arousing their lust for wealth…”_

He gave a sigh.

Here he was, in one of the loveliest regions of France, on a trip with all expenses paid by another purse than his and on the brink of unveiling one of the greatest enigmas concerning the genius whose bewitching, dazzling creations which were way ahead of Leonardo’s time when they’ve been made had completely fascinated young Sherlock.

He should have been over the moon at this opportunity, crying out with joy and rushing to the _Clos Lucé_ , Leonardo’s last house.

He should already be there, getting in touch with the museum’s administrators and dazzling John with his deductions.

John.

His unexpected friend, the flatmate who was always there, nudging him into eating, taking care of him.

His conductor of light, who has brought with him shadows Sherlock was getting lost into.

Joh, who has stopped dating six months ago, who has glanced at him more and more frequently before suddenly stopping meeting his eye.

Sherlock sighed again.

Here he was, pining – because let’s come to the point or _appelons un chat un chat_ as the French say – piteously, horribly pining for the man who shared his life in all important matters except for one.

It shouldn’t have mattered. Sherlock has fought tooth and nail to keep his freedom, to keep his mind clear and focused on nothing else but the Work. Never getting distracted, never allowing someone to grow into something else than a fling, a mere one-night entertainment or an useful tool to serve the Work.

They’ve been few and far between. As he got older, Sherlock has thought himself immune to all this, this laughable quest for love, this seemingly never-ending lust pushing people who got barely anything in common into the arms of each other for the sake of a few hours’ pleasure.

He rolled his eyes at couples cooing at each other, laughed at the ridiculous pet names people found for their partners – seriously, how could you stand being called “my dove”, “sweety pie” or “Bunny Boo” and in public to boot? – and sneered at the sickeningly mercantile feast of Valentine’s Day.

He hasn’t considered the fact that by doing so, he has been as blind as the poor fools he loved to make a mock of.

He has forgotten the extraordinary power of feelings, especially when they awoke after a long sleep. To think the Work was giving him proof every day to the lengths people were going just to get what they wanted…

_You see but you do not observe._

Sherlock let out a mirthless laugh.

He has believed himself stronger than anyone.

Someone somewhere was laughing at him for sure.

The most aggravating fact in this whole mess was that he couldn’t read John anymore. Every little modulation in his voice, every glance he shot at Sherlock when he thought he couldn’t see him, every little change in his routine has turned as muddy as the Thames on a rainy day.

Sherlock was doubting himself, getting lost in endless deductions about his friend without obtaining a clear answer.

When people looked at John Watson, they often only saw the man tagging Sherlock. They made fun of him, shaking their heads with amused pity. Some well-intentioned souls have even tried to warn him against Sherlock, whispering in his ear or frankly saying, not bothering to lower their voices, even when Sherlock could hear them.

“Don’t follow him. Can’t you see he’s a freak, a madman? He doesn’t care one whit about you!”

They didn’t see the dark side of the moon, the invisible part of the iceberg; They didn’t notice what was carefully hidden in Sherlock’s eyes every time he looked at John.

If John has been caught in Sherlock’s orbit, feeling the permanent pull like a magnet, Sherlock was finding himself unable to resist as well.

He had been ensnared, lured into John’s blue-eyed trap.

And what’s even worse, a part of him clearly relished that fact.

  A sharp trill of his mobile brought him back to reality. He pulled the phone out of his pocket, the message icon flashing on the screen. Sherlock groaned. He already knew what it was about or from whom it came. At least, he thought not without some irony, he hasn’t lost completely his deduction capacities as far as John wasn’t concerned.

_How do you find Amboise, brother mine? MH_

He hastened to type the answer Mycroft clearly expected – at least one of them – “ _Exceedingly dull. Don’t bother me again. SH_ ” before standing up.

The Work was waiting for him and he couldn’t really waste any more time here, in this dreary little room. Pining has never achieved anything after all.

It was time to see for himself what secrets were hidden within the _Clos Lucé_ ’s walls.

He has barely closed the room’s door behind him when he heard footsteps coming closer.

John has returned, he briefly thought before turning to him. John’s soft “Oh” as soon as he saw Sherlock in his coat elicited a thrill rushing through his veins, warming his whole body. Sherlock gritted his teeth, finding himself powerless to curb the heady feeling immediately engulfing him at John’s sight.

“Are you going out?”

Sherlock nodded, staring at his friend, trying to see whatever was hidden from him.

After a few seconds, John looked away and his voice was strained when he broke the silence between them.

“Do you want me to come with you or… ?”

He fought the impulse of screaming that yes, of course, why would he leave behind the man whose company he cherished and desired above everyone’s else?

He didn’t know how to say all this without giving himself away though and furious against himself, he sharply replied

“Of course! Why would you be here otherwise?”

It was obviously the wrong thing to say as John’s face clouded over. Sherlock felt despair creeping over him. Why couldn’t he say anything right anymore?

“Yeah, right,” John softly said before clearing his throat and pasting on a smile. “Lead the way, then!”


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm afraid what was intended as a short, funny story at the beginning might end up being quite a little longer than expected... So, my apologies, dear readers, Muse had a mind of its own, it seems!  
> And let's start the Mystrade side of this fic...

“And one more paper to sign…” Anthea said before putting the document on his desk, right in front of him.

“Goodness,” Mycroft groaned. “Tell me it’s the last one.”

He wasn’t really one to complain about the seemingly never-ending mountain of forms, permissions and other very formal as well as utterly dull documents to be filled in and signed, but every man had its limits and Mycroft Holmes felt he was entitled to some whining before he finally complied with the many rules governing the British bureaucracy.

At least, he thought, when he was safely ensconced in the privacy of his office.

“You’re in luck, then,” Anthea replied with an amused quirk of her full lips. “One little signature at the bottom of this one… Very well done, Sir, I’ve always admired the way you finish signing with such a flourish, it really suits the “minor position in the government” character, you know…”

Mycroft rolled his eyes, amused despite himself by the cheekiness of his much-needed assistant and, in all likelihood, his successor. At least, he was doing his best to ensure it would be the case. At this level of power in the great pyramidal structure of her Majesty’s government, no position was easily gained or kept, but it was even more difficult when you were a woman of Indian descent like Anthea.

Fortunately for her, she had the pugnacity as well as the diplomacy the job required, combined with an uncanny ability to detect her opponents’ weaknesses and to turn them to her advantage.

And of course, she had me, Mycroft thought with some – well-deserved in his opinion – smugness; After all, he had been the first to recognize, in this young woman whose upbringing was so different than his, the same qualities he had long ago acknowledged for himself during his university days.

Mycroft Holmes might be conservative, appreciating old and even absurd traditions as for example the absolute silence required within the walls of the Diogenes’ Club, but he wasn’t a fool and grooming Anthea as his successor was nothing but a most logical action undertaken among a thousand other ones, all contributing to the achievement of an exemplary and successful career.

Which was not to say that Anthea’s choice hasn’t brought some unexpected benefits in its wake, such as the agreeable companionship they were having now. They were working well together, forming an unstoppable team behind Westminster’s scenes, dividing what was to be done amongst themselves with an ease everyone around them envied.

Of course, there were rumours and of course, they mostly talked about a torrid, behind-closed-doors affair going on between both of them.

It was to be expected, after all, when a young woman was working for a middle-aged, die hard bachelor such as himself. Such were the ways of this sexist, heteronormative society, when one couldn’t see a single woman in company with a man without imagining a sexual relationship blooming between them, Mycroft thought with a resigned sigh.

What nobody imagined – or at least, if they did, they were carefully keeping it to themselves – was the fact that Anthea and himself were both queer.

And – at least in Anthea’s case – greatly enjoying the seduction game she was regularly playing with the ladies she met after work or during the weekend.

As for Mycroft’s private life… It was a whole other story, much to his well-hidden dismay. Especially when a certain Detective Inspector was concerned.

_Enough of this!_ he mentally admonished himself, rubbing his tired eyes and giving a sigh.

“Feeling maudlin, Sir?” Anthea asked, casting a puzzled look in his direction. “Should I see on Twitter which latest idiocy our beloved friend Trump posted today and read it to you?”

Mycroft snorted at this, being naturally reminded of the laughter Anthea and him had shared over Trump’s latest tweet.

“Another day maybe. There’s only so much stupidity I can stomach in one day and I’m afraid the discussion this afternoon with our Russian counterparts was the latest straw.”

Anthea chuckled, checking in one swift glance that the very full agenda of this day has indeed been dealt with.

“Well, with a bit of luck, we might both now enjoy a free evening! The last one before New Year’s Eve in fact.” She turned to him, a teasing smile creasing her lips. “So, what should be tonight’s programme, Sir? Perfecting your already flawless Korean for next month’s official visit? Taking part in a chess online tournament?”

“Oh, please. It would be very unfair of me to deprive the other players of this particular laurel wreath,” Mycroft retorted, deadpan.

“Of course,” Anthea smoothly retorted, an amused gleam in her dark eyes. “One thing for sure, you won’t be working on your modesty, then.”

“What would be the point?” Mycroft asked, looking up at his currently very sassy assistant. “Weren’t you the one who said a few days ago, in reply to my quite innocent remark, I might add, about your efficient way of tackling the unwelcome advances of Lord May “if you got it, flaunt it!”?

This time, Anthea let out a fond laugh before shaking her head.

“Touché. And on this final word…”

The sharp thrill of the office phone cut her off and Mycroft couldn’t help groaning as Anthea answered with a swift “Yes?”

Please, he thought, not the Russians again! Not today, at least; He really couldn’t deal with…

A soft “Oh!” made him carefully glance up.

Anthea was still listening to the person speaking at the other end, but her expression has turned from already annoyed to unexpectedly joyful.

So, the Russian crisis seemed to have been brought to an efficient end, Mycroft thought, trying not to look like he was a little bit frightened by Anthea’s mischievous smile and missing it by a mile, if his assistant’s cat-got-the-cream expression was anything to go by.

“Alright, Mike. Send him up, would you?” she replied before she hung up.

Mycroft raised both eyebrows, as he felt his heartbeat increasing.

“Send whom up?” he directly asked, his tiredness and annoyance at Anthea’s order without asking first for his approval colouring his voice.

It didn’t seem to intimidate her in the slightest.

“An unexpected visitor. However, I think you’ll welcome him with open arms,” she retorted, laughter in her voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, Anthea,” Mycroft snapped. “After the day we had, I very much doubt that…”

He stopped, a truly frightening idea coming up in his mind.

He stared at Anthea, who cheekily looked back at him, a hint of challenge glinting in her gaze.

“You… You haven’t dared…”

“Dare what, Sir?” she said in a soft voice before leaning in. “Because if you’re speaking of the handsome Detective Inspector you’re shamelessly ogling each time he’s requesting your presence for a so called ‘Sherlock crisis’, I must admit then I dared approving his coming up right now.”

Mycroft remained rooted to his chair, barely believing what he’s just heard.

He felt his cheeks heating up and his heart started to pound in his chest.

“It’s… I don’t…” he babbled to his utter humiliation.

“Don’t try to lie to me, Sir,” Anthea said, softly shaking her head. “Or should I remind you you taught me very well in this regard? I thought not.”

She quickly patted his hand.

“Don’t worry though. I’m sure he only wants to ask you a few questions about Sherlock’s whereabouts that you so stubbornly refused to tell me about.”

And before he could utter a single word, she turned on her heel, snatching her handbag in the process, swaggered to the office’s door and opened it with a bang.

“Good evening, Detective Inspector!” Mycroft heard her piping.

Familiar goosebumps erupted over his skin as Gregory’s… - _Detective Inspector Lestrade’s, for God sake!_ – stammered reply “Good… evening… er” reached his ears.

But this feeling was nothing compared to the sizzling hot rush spreading across his whole body when Anthea added, with a perfectly sweet smile

“Don't worry, Detective Inspector, I won’t hold you any longer.” She waved at Mycroft from the antechamber. “He’s all yours now!”


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's my first mystrade story as you might have known and I have to admit I was a bit afraid of depicting these two. I don't know if I have managed to do it well with this chapter, but one thing for sure, it was a lot of fun to write!

Greg watched, puzzled and a little bit mystified if he wanted to be honest with himself, Anthea swaggering out of the office’s antechamber.

_What does she mean, he’s all mine? Although I wouldn’t turn him down if he so much as suggested it…_

— Detective Inspector.

Startled by the familiar smooth voice, Greg gave a little jump before turning to the man he has been looking forward to see since John has called him and who was currently standing in the half-open door.

— Didn’t we finally agree on using “Gregory” and “Mycroft” the last time we met?

He clearly intended his remark as friendly, a teasing smile on his lips, but when he saw Mycroft’s face darken a little bit, Greg called himself a bloody fool.

What a way to start their meeting.

— Apologies, det…Gregory, Mycroft replied with a pained quirk of his mouth which couldn’t really pass for a smile. It has been a long day and… I wasn’t expecting your visit, he added, throwing a dark look at the door Anthea has gone through a moment ago.

Oh.

Greg felt his ego deflating a little bit.

He wasn’t as smart as the Holmes brothers – they were in a category on their own – but despite what Sherlock firmly implied every time Greg asked for his help, he wasn’t a complete idiot. The current expression on Mycroft’s face clearly gave him to understand that Mycroft, if he had been alone when he had been notified of Greg’s visit, wouldn’t have agreed to let him come up here.

He should have known, he bitterly thought. It has been way too easy to get to Mycroft’s office.

“I don’t want to disturb you…” he heard himself babbling in a voice which made him cringe internally. For God’s sake, can he behave even more like a fool?

“Nonsense,” Mycroft abruptly cut him off before standing aside and waving at his office. “Please come in. We’ll be more comfortable.”

Greg had no other choice but to follow him.

Damn you, John Watson! he thought. You owe me way more than the next round of pints next time I see you!

* * *

 

For all the time they have known each other, Greg has only set foot once or twice in Mycroft’s office. He remembered very well however the unpleasant impression which struck him every time he did. The feeling of fitting in in this stately, delicately luxurious environment – nothing crude or over-the-top about it, it wasn’t really Mycroft’s style – as well as a bull in a china shop.

He hastened to sit down in the nearest chair, refusing to listen to the little voice whispering in his ear he better take flight before he completely humiliated himself.

He hasn’t obtained his DI badge by turning tail and running away at the first hurdle, after all. Besides, if there was one field on which Greg prided himself on being an expert, it was his capacity of sizing up Mycroft’s mood at one glance.

He knew of course – and Mycroft must know them as well – the many names, often derisive, which have been attached to the man seated in front of him.

Ice Man.

Bloody Cold Bastard.

The Machine.

All of them barely concealing, under a veneer of mockery, their fear and unease when they were coming face to face with Mycroft “You will do as I say” Holmes.

Greg couldn’t deny it was an efficient policy to apply in most cases, people being visibly shaken up after their first encounter with Mycroft, grumbling a bit for their dignity’s sake before they complied with his wishes.

However, it wasn’t foolproof.

John Watson has been an exception.

And so was Greg, quietly observing the Ice Man that he often dreamed of relieving of his Savile Row tailored suit before kissing him into submission.

He must be quite mad to imagine such a thing, Greg mused, but it was a madness he has come to accept quite a long time ago, since he came out of his first meeting with his Pompousness a bit awestruck and burning with the fierce desire to get to know the man.

A desire which has remained latent all these years he has deluded himself into thinking he was happily married – thank you Pamela for the wake up call, by the way – and which has grown more and more insistent since his divorce.

— So, Gregory, what can I do for you? Mycroft asked, bringing to a stop Greg’s musings.

To a stranger’s eyes, he would have looked completely impassive, bordering on deep indifference, but Greg wasn’t fooled. He has picked up on Mycroft’s long fingers nervously twitching once or twice before Mycroft collected himself.

Mycroft was nervy, something must have thrown him for a loop and Greg couldn’t resist prodding him a little bit.

“Straight to the point, I see. And here I thought we could have a nice little chat with a cup of tea!”

He didn’t miss the startled look in Mycroft’s eyes or the light flush spreading across on his cheekbones. However, it didn’t last. Mycroft’s whole face hardened and his voice grew progressively colder as he replied in the tone he undoubtedly intended when he had the misfortune of coming across persons as cheeky and foolish as Greg at this moment.   

“Detective Inspector, I do not know if you have noticed, but I do not care for such triviality as “having a chat over a cup of tea”. Nor would I have the time to do so, even if I was feeling inclined to. Now please tell me the purpose of your visit.”

Another man would already have gone into a huff, bristling at Mycroft’s choice of words and taking flight, thus behaving exactly like Mycroft has wanted him to.

Greg didn’t intend to grant him this satisfaction. He leaned back against his chair, taking the time to cross his legs. During a fleeting moment, he toyed with the idea of replying “If you’re not interested in a chat, how about a quick shag over your desk, then?” but his intent was to bring Mycroft out of his armour, not to antagonize him.

He raised both hands.

“Okay, I get it, you’re not fond of cupcakes… A right shame, I wouldn’t have minded one!”

For sole answer Mycroft raised an impatient eyebrow and Greg finally relented.

“I was looking for Sherlock but he seemed unreachable.”

“Apologies, Detective inspector, my brother’s away for a few days. I trust you’ll be able to get by without his help this time,” Mycroft flippantly replied, glancing down at the documents spread over his desk, looking like he couldn’t wait for Greg’s departure to get back to work.

A good thing I always had a soft spot for hedgehogs and other prickly creatures, Greg thought.

“Don’t tell me you sent him off on holiday. Because, in this case, John Watson deserves all my sympathy!”

“Rest assured, Detective…”

“It’s Greg. Or Gregory, as you prefer, _Mycroft_ ”, he instinctively replied, emphasizing the last word.

Once again, Mycroft’s cheeks became tinged with red. A sight which sent Greg’s mind into the gutter, this time.

_Got a thing for my voice? Do you like me saying aloud your name? Because I bet I can moan it very prettily in your ear…_

Fortunately for the treacherous heat creeping up his spine and into his pants, the wanton thoughts were brought to a swift end when Mycroft looked up at him, giving him a potent glare.

“As I was saying,” he replied, uttering every syllable as if it was a bullet intended for the man seated in front of him, “rest assured that my brother and his… friend are suitably occupied for the moment. And that’s all you have to know in that regard.”

A victorious glint gleamed in Mycroft’s clear gaze as he added

“Besides, Detective Inspector, I don’t think the criminal cases you’ve currently got on your plate could truly arouse Sherlock’s interest.”

Greg could have crowed with delight right now.

Mycroft, you devious little thing, he thought. You’ve just offered me what I was looking for on a silver platter.

“And how do you know that?” he retorted, a teasing smile blooming on his lips. “Let me guess – you already got my new computer hacked, didn’t you?”

Mycroft didn’t even bother denying.

“Sherlock’s business is my own or have you forgotten?”

Time to take the plunge, Greg thought. Unlike John, who was relentlessly pining for his flatmate, he was rather fond of the maxim “Nothing ventured, nothing gained”. True, it wasn’t always successful and he got his share of rebuffs over the years, but if he persisted playing by Mycroft’s rules, he would never reach his goal.

Besides, it would be a pity to waste such an opportunity.

So, without thinking too much about what he was about to do, he got up, put both hands on Mycroft’s desk and leaned in until he could have kissed the man.

Instead he softly asked

“Tell me, did you also bug my mobile?”

Mycroft gave him a nonplussed look, instinctively shaking his head.

“What are you…?”

“A shame, that,” Greg cut him off, taking care of looking at him in the eye. “Because if you have listened to my last chat with John, you would have learned something which might have interested you…”

As he expected, Mycroft beautifully took the bait.

“Really?” he dubiously said.

Greg nodded.

“You might have learned how I seem to have developed a _very fond_ spot for a lovely, completely handsome, devastatingly gorgeous individual working for the British government…”


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Dear readers,
> 
> Be aware that a smutty scene is coming your way, hence the newly-upgraded status of this story.  
> (TW: Mention of a brief het scene. )  
> (Rest assured, it'll be the only one in this story!)

From their hotel, it was easy to reach Amboise’s historical centre – barely a 15-minute walk. As they were walking side by side on the bridge stepping across the Loire river, John heard tourists admiring the truly amazing view with the old castle towering above the city. Most of them were taking pictures, looking for the best point of view from which they could catch Amboise’s quite riveting sights.

They were all idiots, John smugly thought, swiftly walking round them in order to better follow Sherlock. The best, most fascinating thing those people would ever had the good fortune to glimpse was striding along them, his ever-changing gaze currently focused on his mobile.

Nobody seemed to pay attention to the detective.

Nobody gave him the slightest admiring glance.

They never recognized the importance of the man who has saved their own little lives a thousand times over without them being aware of that fact.

Sherlock Holmes was being ignored by all, except for one person faithfully dogging his steps.

And John would never admit it how proud he was of that fact and how jealous he was as regards that privilege.

He was like a dragon with his treasure, carefully hoarding the precious little nuggets he was being granted thanks to him living alongside Sherlock – how he liked his tea, the roll of his eyes when John insisted they watched the “Pointless” show, the flex of his toes and the hum of appreciation he gave when he finally agreed to break his fast after a 10-minute negotiation.

Everyone always assumed that John has been lured into Sherlock’s world with the thrilling cases and the breath-taking moments when they gave chase to a suspect.

That he coped with Sherlock’s many eccentricities and sometimes truly disgusting habits for the simple reason he couldn’t imagine himself living a dull, boring everyday life. That he needed the flush of excitement and danger coursing through his veins as he needed air.

Even Lestrade has thought so, until John has spilt the beans about his feelings concerning Sherlock during one of their pub nights, leaving the DI completely gobsmacked.

“You mean… You like _like_ him?” he has asked, his eyes nearly bulging with surprise.

John has snorted, internally bristling at Greg’s expression.

“What’s so remarkable about it?” he has replied before swallowing the rest of his beer in a gulp, taking the time to calm himself down. “Don’t know if you’ve noticed it, but he _is_ good-looking.”

An understatement, John has thought, but he wasn’t willing to wax poetic about Sherlock, Greg might end up having a stroke.

“Thank you, I’ve got eyes, I can see he’s not without some… charm.”

Greg has pulled a face saying this and John has smothered a smile.

“It’s just that I never thought you would appreciate him like this.”

“Like what?”

“Like he was a regular bloke!” Greg has replied, punctuating his words with a wave of his hand. “Of course, we know he’s not, he’s a genius about it, but to like him for his human qualities…”

John has been left speechless, staring at the DI.

“Let me get this straight, so to speak – You were thinking I was living with Sherlock and going with him when he had a case simply because… ?”

“You got your jollies from all this, yeah,” Greg has finished, hiding his flushed face in his pint.

Silence between them has been most awkward, until John has broken it with a humourless little laugh.

“Wow. I didn’t know you considered me as so shallow…”

“No, no, you got the wrong end of the stick, mate…” Greg has retorted. “I mean that I have literally never met someone who was enjoying Sherlock’s company without expecting something in return. Let’s be honest, I fully belong to this category, requesting his help when my team is stuck. It doesn’t mean I don’t enjoy verbally sparring with him on occasion or taking him to the pub for a celebratory drink but I’ll never live with him as you do, writing up his cases on a blog, taking care of him…”

“You make me sound like some kind of alien,” John has grumbled.

“Not my intent and you know it. I won’t deny I’m a bit astounded you got a crush on him…”

“That’s even better, I’m a lovesick teenager now!”

Greg has heartily laughed, elbowing John good-naturedly in the ribs, before becoming serious again.

“Let’s face the facts – in one way or another, everyone uses Sherlock for his own purpose. Even his brother does!”

“Even Mrs Hudson?”

The DI has raised an eyebrow.

“She doesn’t get any child, does she?”

John has closed the discussion with a “Shut up Greg!” sharper than he intended and Lestrade has let it drop, never raising the issue again, but from that moment on, his words have been engraved on John’s memory.

Was he really the only one who truly appreciated Sherlock’s company for what is was?

Granted, the man didn’t seem to have any friend, but surely he got acquaintances. Past lovers, maybe.

However, as time went on and John’s life got even enmeshed in Sherlock’s until he wasn’t sure any more if he got really a life on his own or if he was just here to answer Sherlock’s call, following blindly into their next adventure, he realized Greg has not been way off the mark.

And he also found out that, if everyone was using Sherlock for one purpose or another, the detective was using them just as well in return.

Hell, didn’t he ask John, when they first met, to come with him because he needed his medical expertise?

But it didn’t explain everything as far as their companionship was concerned.

Things took a decisive turn when Sherlock introduced him as “his friend” for one of their cases.

John has remained frozen for a second or two, blinking at his flatmate who has so casually uttered this word.

His friend.

If he hasn’t stared at Sherlock at this moment, he would have missed his lips pursing as he said this as well as the single glance, full of hesitation, he directed directly afterwards at John.

As if Sherlock was checking it has been okay to say this aloud.

A warm rush has spread across John’s chest and he knew he was smiling a bit goofily at Sherlock.

But at that moment, he truly didn’t care.

The story would have ended there, with this unexpected acknowledgement of what they were for each other, if no other feeling has come into play.

But that wasn’t the case.

He was feeling attracted to him.

A physical pull he was struggling against, never admitting its existence even when he was alone with his thoughts.

A struggle which has been abruptly concluded a few months ago, when John has decided to take advantage of Sherlock’s absence one evening to settle on his bed and enjoy a good, leisurely long wank. He got everything ready – the towel underneath him so not to stain his sheets, the lube and especially the wank fantasy he was going to use.

It was one of his favourites, a well-used memory of one of his sexual encounters when he had been on leave. He has pulled her at the bar, a waitress called Jane who has set his senses and his cock on fire with her flirty smiles and even more flirty comments.

He has chatted her up shamelessly and when the bar has finally closed, she has taken him home.

John was lying down on his bed, closing his eyes, slowly stroking his cock as he remembered the sweetness of Jane’s mouth, the smell of her skin, how he has unclasped her bra in a swift move, palming her breasts through her top.

She has lovely breasts, big enough that he could dream of sliding his cock between them, leaving a wet trail behind. Jane has pushed him down on her bed, straddling him immediately afterwards, grinding her sex against his.

In reality, they have ended up fucking furiously a good part of the night, morning finding them completely spent.

However, as John was now stroking his member a bit more quicker, his fantasy suddenly derailed.

Suddenly the hips below his fingers were not round and soft anymore, turning to hard, skinny ridges.

Suddenly, Jane’s heavy breasts bouncing up and down as he canted his hips below her, establishing a fast and furious rhythm, vanished, leaving behind a flat, slim chest.

As he glanced up at her, trying to remember Jane’s features, the black messy cloud of her hair around her face turned into a mass of curls. Her smile became a smirk.

The sweet, high sounds she had made as he fucked her were being replaced with a deep, oh so very familiar voice whispering to him “Harder, John. Harder!”.

Sherlock, he was picturing Sherlock in his mind and it wasn’t on, it was definitely not on, he should have stopped right there this madness, but he has found himself unable to stop, it was good, so very good, especially since he has forbidden himself to think about it.

 _Isn’t it good, John_ , a dark, smooth voice has said in his mind, _when you finally let all of it go?_

_When you’re finally being true to yourself?_

Oh, yes, he has replied aloud, not even being aware of that fact, it was good, very good, it was ecstasy right now, as he wanked into oblivion, his left hand a blur on his cock, watching his fantasy of Sherlock panting his pleasure, moaning his desire for John – “Harder, please, harder!” – sweat beading on his brow, his whole body trembling with the effort, his need to come swirling along out of his control until sweet, blessed release has come.

God.

He has never come harder in his life.

And he wasn’t having actual sex – not with another person, at least.

Since this episode, he has stopped dating.

The flirty grins sent his way received nothing more than a polite “Thanks but no thanks” smile in return.

He focused all his attention on the only human being who has caught him heart and soul.

Trying not to give himself away but unable to resist the pull any longer.

He was truly stuck, John acknowledged with a wry grin, as he followed Sherlock in Amboise’s streets, ignoring completely the tourists milling around in the picturesque alleys.

The worst being maybe that he had no true desire to let Sherlock out of his sight. Ever.


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The descriptions as regards Amboise and the Clos Lucé are accurate enough, I had the pleasure to visit them last summer and if you got the opportunity to see the city as well as the sights it can offer, go for it!
> 
> As for the rest... Remember, it'll be very unproductive now to kill the writer :)

“John? John!”

John suddenly snapped back to reality, blinking at Sherlock who was standing in front of him, hands on his hips, an irritated expression on his face.

“Are you finished daydreaming now? It might have escaped your attention that we have reached our goal,” he said, waving his hand at a lit board hung on the wall and telling everyone who might be looking at it that yes, the Clos Lucé was waiting for them behind the nearby doors.

Oh.

John shook his head, glancing at the surroundings. They were finding themselves in a quiet cobbled street, at the top of a steep slope. When he turned on his heel, he could see the city shining down below. He hasn’t paid any attention to where they were going, John thought with a guilty flush. Something that Sherlock didn’t miss, considering the smirk on his lips.

“Oh, shut up,” John grumbled, “I bet you kept your eyes glued to your mobile screen until now!”

The smirk didn’t disappear. Instead, it widened even a bit.

“But unlike you, John, I’m able to multitask,” Sherlock retorted, his voice sending a very unwelcome right now tendril of heat curling up in John’s groin.

He smothered a groan. It wasn’t the right time to let his imagination run wild. They were here for a case and…

“What are you doing?” he asked as he saw Sherlock going past the Clos Lucé’s doors and striding along the wall enclosing the old house and its garden. “Aren’t they waiting for us?”

“Yes, but…”

Sherlock turned to him, an odd expression on his face. Something akin to soft wonder and which made John’s breath catch in his throat. Goodness, as if he needed Sherlock looking even more gorgeous than usual.

“I was fascinated by Da Vinci when I was young,” Sherlock suddenly said, breaking the cosy silence between them. “I’ve read literally everything that I could lay my hands on about him.”

John wasn’t really surprised by this. From what he knew about Da Vinci – which was very little, by the way – he could see how a young Sherlock could become enraptured by the Renaissance genius.

“I remember Mycroft offering me once a book describing every achievement of his for my seventh birthday,” Sherlock added. “One of the best gifts I’ve ever received.”

John felt a pang deep in his heart when he glimpsed Sherlock’s face thanks to the light of a street lamp. He could guess these gifts have been far and few between over the years. He instinctively came closer to Sherlock, wanting nothing more than to hold him in his arms and keep him there. He stopped himself in extremis, gritting his teeth.

_Get a grip, Watson!_

In a swift second, Sherlock’s face changed, turning from melancholic to animated, an unexpected joy suffusing his features. It wasn’t the expression he usually wore when he solved a case, though. It was something purer, even more enthralling than John has ever seen on his face.

“Come along, John!” he cried out, starting to run along the wall.

John automatically complied, not without asking

“But where are we going?”

He only obtained a soft laugh as answer.

 

* * *

 

They didn’t run very far, Sherlock abruptly stopping as soon as he found that after a few yards, a part of the Clos Lucé’s external wall wasn’t as high as the others. He looked up at the barrier, putting his hand on the brick.

“Get over here, John, and give me a leg up!”

“Seriously?” John retorted even if he obeyed. “You’re going to scale this wall while people are waiting for us inside?”

“Hush! Where’s your sense of adventure, doctor Watson?” Sherlock replied as he impatiently put his shoe on John’s knee, ignoring his protest – “You could have wiped out your shoes before, you know!” – hauling himself up in an apparently effortless move onto the wall’s top.

John was already opening his mouth to ask Sherlock to help him, not willing to be left behind, but Sherlock beat him to it, leaning down and lending him a hand.

“Don’t be silly,” he whispered, a smile on his lips. “As if I could forget my blogger.”

John felt his face colouring, as he put his palm against Sherlock’s.

“Yeah, well… You forgot me before.”

Sherlock hauled him up, John hastening to find a foothold until he could sit on the wall’s top. He was ready to let himself fall on the other side, following Sherlock blindly as usual, but the detective didn’t let him go, tightening his grip on John’s hand.

Surprised, John glanced up at him… and found himself nearly face to face with his friend. His mouth became suddenly dry and he felt his heart racing in his chest. Only a few inches between them. He automatically glanced down at Sherlock’s mouth before looking away, his cheeks burning.

_Way to go, Watson! He won’t become suspicious now…_

He was getting so worked up about his short-lived oversight he nearly missed Sherlock’s answer, spoken in a velvety voice which left him in a flutter.

“But that was before, John. I’ll never forget you again, now.”

John was staring at him, unable to turn his head away, even if he was sure that Sherlock would be able to read him like an open book. The detective watched him for a moment, his warm breath wafting over John’s face, his eyes shining with an yet-unseen emotion.  
John felt himself instinctively leaning in, he couldn’t resist, he was going to…

Sherlock suddenly pulled back and in one swift move, let himself drop in the garden.

“Come along, John, no time to waste!”

John scrambled down the wall, wishing he could delete as easily the kiss which never happened.

 

* * *

 

The Clos Lucé’s garden was really a beautiful place. Thanks to the lights spread out all over the gentle slope, he could see beautiful flower beds, a river wounding its way over them as lovely wooden bridges were stepping across the water. The perfect place for a romantic moonlit stroll, he thought, except from the weird, enigmatic machines whose presence was even more emphasized by the spotlights trained on them.

“What are… ?”

“Replicas of Leonard’s creations!” Sherlock breathlessly answered, his whole face glowing with joy. “Oh my, it’s even better than in the book!” he whispered before running at top speed to the nearest machine. At that moment, he looked every inch like the child he must have been, the gangling boy, curious of everything the world has yet to offer him. Despite what has just happened and the crushing disappointment he was feeling right now, John couldn’t help but smile, especially when he heard Sherlock crying out “Oh, that’s terrific! And it works!”

He was about to join his madman of a friend when he felt his mobile vibrating in his pocket. He pulled out the phone, looking at the message he just received.

_You owe me WAY more than a round of pints!_

Greg.

Goodness, he has nearly forgotten Greg’s self-appointed task to come to Mycroft and try to talk him into letting Sherlock and John come back to London. He swallowed hard as he decided to call the DI. If only it could mean he didn’t have to share a single bed with Sherlock tonight…

Greg picked up immediately.

“I was sure you would call me,” he said.

His voice sounds relaxed, but John knew him well enough to sense it was just a front.

“Did you talk to Mycroft?”

The mirthless laugh which followed confirmed what he already suspected. John stopped walking, unsure as how to behave. What has happened between these two?

“You all right, mate?”

“Not quite, to tell you the truth. My… ego has been battered tonight and while it’s nothing major, it’s going to take quite a bit of time to patch it up.”

John glanced at Sherlock, who was still exploring the garden’s treasures, leaping about from one complex machine to another. He shook his head when he saw Sherlock setting foot inside… Was it some kind of a tank?

“Tell me what happened.”

Greg gave a loud sigh.

“I’m sorry, John. Mycroft already knew none of my cases was interesting enough to call Sherlock back from… whatever he’s doing now. He saw right through my bluff.”

Well, it was to be expected, John bitterly thought. Damn the British government!

“I can hear in your voice it’s not the only thing he saw right through, isn’t it?”

Greg let out an amused huff.

“Are you channelling your inner Sherlock right now?”

“Greg…”

“Oh okay. If you want to know, I decided to stop playing coy with his Pompousness. I’ve put my cards on the table and tell him exactly what I was thinking of him. And what I would like to do _to_ him if I got the chance.”

For the second time since he left the hotel, John found himself rooted to the spot, unable to believe what he has just heard.

“You didn’t…”

“Yep. I did.”

“And how…?”

“I was expelled from his office in thirty seconds flat. (He heard Greg gulping down what was surely a bottle of his favourite beer.) Got to say his bodyguards really knew their job.”

John groaned.

“Gosh… Greg, mate, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” the DI retorted. “At least I know where I stand right now. Pining from afar has never been my style, after all.”

John chuckled humourlessly.

“Neither was mine until… Well.”

“Yeah. (Greg’s voice became stronger.) Talk to him, mate. You’ve got to.”

“To get the same result as you, you mean? How could you say that! Can you just imagine how awkward your next meeting with Mycroft is bound to be?”

“Oh please, I’m sure he has already deleted the whole scene. As for myself… “

John could imagine him shrugging, a resigned expression on his face.

“I’m going to deal with it. Get over it. And…”

“John?”

It was Sherlock.

“Oh shit,” John whispered.

At the other end, he heard Greg laughing.

“He’s calling for you, isn’t he? Go on, hang up!”

“Greg, I…”

A bip cut him off. Greg has ended the call.

John stared at his phone, torn between the desire to join Sherlock wherever he might be in his own Wonderland and the need to send a message to Greg, trying to alleviate the pain he was quite sure the DI was in.

God, Mycroft was a real bastard!

But, before he could decide on what to do next, a voice suddenly boomed in the garden through loudspeakers John hasn’t detected until now.

“Mister Holmes,” a female voice said, “if you’re quite finished playing with our precious small-scale models, can I ask you to come to my office right now? It’s getting late and we’ve quite a few things to discuss.”


	9. Chapter 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This part is more plotty than porny, I'm afraid, but rest assured I'll make it up to you later :)
> 
> I've updated the tags to avoid that anyone might be caught unawares but I'll repeat here - Trigger Warning !  
> Mention of Transphobic behaviour and abuse in this chapter - psychological abuse, more precisely.  
> You are warned.
> 
> And on a lighter note, the case I describe in this chapter is based on this article - http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/art/news/mona-lisa-smile-based-on-his-gay-lover-claims-leonardo-da-vinci-art-historian-a6993951.html
> 
> I hope you all enjoy this development ;)

Sherlock resentfully came out of the tank replica, stepping on the green law. The 10-year-old boy who still survived in him vigorously resented being interrupted in his garden exploration by the unknown female voice whose echo was still lingering in the air. 

Truth was, during an all too brief moment, he has enjoyed finding back the simple joys of his childhood, when everything has seemed so easy. Of course, it hasn’t been, Sherlock being reminded all too well of the many obligations, social or otherwise, which has made him sigh with despair and dragging his feet, when he hasn’t indulged in a familiar sulking session.

Going to school.

Being nice to the overly curious or stupid neighbours, especially when they didn’t catch the drift and leave him alone.

Enduring sitting at the dinner table, even when he wasn’t feeling hungry.

But, at least, when he was a child, he could allow himself to show some rudeness. He didn’t have to play nice  _all the time_  with the others.

His mind, a formidable weapon still being honed thanks to his endless curiosity, wasn’t getting muddled up by feelings which were as inconvenient as they were relentless.

Maybe – just maybe – if he still had his childhood mind’s focus, he could have known with absolute certainty if John has truly made a move earlier, when they were both on top of that wall, as if he wanted…

_As if he wanted your kiss? John “I’m not gay!” Watson? The man whose amorous exploits are still the talk of his army mates? You’re delusional. And if you carried on in this manner, misinterpreting every gesture, every word of his, you’re going to let your guard down. He’ll notice it, he’ll freak out and you’ll lose him._

Sherlock scowled, slowly walking back up the slope, still lost in his thoughts.

Thoughts which were brought to a crashing halt when he glanced up at John, who was obviously waiting for him while fiddling around with something in his pocket.

_His mobile. He has pulled it out, certainly getting in touch with someone he is concerned for. Look at the frown lingering on his face, the way his features are still strained. There it is now – the smile he’s always using to tell the others everything is fine, it’s all fine, especially when it’s not._

Sherlock shook his head.

If his army doctor still believed he could fool him in such an obvious manner, he got another thing coming. 

He didn’t let any of this colouring his voice though when he asked

“Are you all right?”

John’s smile looked more like a grimace.

“Of course! (He turned to the nearby mansion, where a few windows were still lit.) I think our hostess is getting impatient.”

Sherlock nodded. 

“Let’s go then,” he replied before striding away, resolving to pickpocket John’s phone at the earliest opportunity.

 

* * *

 

Their hostess was waiting for them on the mansion’s threshold. Sherlock took in every detail about her at once – the impeccably done fair hair, falling in gentle waves on her shoulders; the confident way she was holding herself; the faint amusement shining in her clear gaze as she met his eye.

“Mister Holmes,” she greeted him, holding out her hand, “it’s a pleasure.”

She was quite as tall as him and the way she carefully pronounced the words suggested it has been some time since she has had the opportunity to speak English. However, it was obvious she has received a sound education abroad – she might have got into Oxford. It would explain the connection between her and Mycroft, at any rate. 

Sherlock’s jealousy reared its ugly head when he glimpsed the smile John typically kept for the women he found attractive blooming on his lips. He fought the impulse to look away and he was rewarded for this effort when the woman, who has introduced herself as Mrs Sylvie Dubusson, only gave a polite nod in answer to John’s greeting.

“Let’s come in my office,” she invited them inside. 

 

* * *

 

Mrs Dubusson’s office accurately mirrored her owner’s tastes and habits. It managed to look cosy and tightly organised at the same time. 

“First, gentlemen, thank you for coming so swiftly here,” she said, pouring each of them a glass of wine – because apparently you couldn’t visit the Loire valley without tasting the regional products. Sherlock has only shrugged when she has offered, ignoring the fondly exasperated gaze John directed at him.

“Keep your gratitude for my ever-meddling brother,” he automatically retorted. “I’m only here because he’s paying the whole trip.”

This time, John swiftly kicked him in the shin while he apologetically smiled at Mrs Dubusson.

“What he meant was…” he started but his attempt was nipped in the bud by their hostess’ laugh. She shook her head, visibly amused, before putting down both glasses in front of them.

“No need to sugar-coat the behaviour of your friend, Doctor Watson,” she replied before meeting Sherlock’s gaze. “You wouldn’t be here if what little Mycroft has told about my case didn’t interest you, would you?”

It was said with a hint of challenge, something which pleased Sherlock enough to make him retort

“In this case, let’s skip the formalities and come straight to the point.”

“Let’s indeed,” she replied before seating in her chair.

Out of the corner of his eye, Sherlock saw John frowning at Mrs Dubusson before looking away. He felt hope fluttering his delicate wings in his chest, knowing that, regardless of the true nature of his feelings concerning Sherlock, John always kept a jealous watch over him.

Having recovered a bit of serenity, he comfortably leaned back against his chair and waited for Mrs Dubusson’s tale.

 

* * *

 

“I’m afraid it’s a kind of family business…”

Sherlock nodded. He has suspected as much when Mycroft has told him that his “friend” wouldn’t like the police to be involved in that case; Mrs Dubusson seemed calm and composed, but this appearance was betrayed by the minute trembles he could observe in her hands. Her amused and slightly challenging demeanour has disappeared, being replaced by a nervousness against which she struggled, now that the time has come for explanations.

“You see, my family has always been very well-versed in the fine arts. My mother is teaching history of art at la Sorbonne university and my father… (She turned her palms upwards, as if she could encompass the whole house) I’ve inherited from him my admiration for Renaissance works and a certain taste for the mysteries… which are clearly abounding as far as Da Vinci is concerned!”

“Wait a minute,” Sherlock cut her in. “Has your father worked here?”

“He’s the former curator, yes,” she quietly answered.

Sherlock remained impassive but his mind was buzzing with the familiar excitement the prospect of an interesting case always provoked. 

“In that case,” he replied, pulling a slight booklet out of his pocket, “how come he isn’t mentioned in the document here?”

She didn’t lower her gaze to it, coming back at him immediately.

“He is. My father is Antonio Palmeri and I’m sure you have already come across his name once or twice. He has gained a bit of reputation among Renaissance experts and besides, he likes to speak to the media. He’s a popular man in his branch.”

Sherlock felt more than he saw John turning slightly his head in his direction, as if he was striving to offer his help to Sherlock but didn’t know how to do it.

“So I assume you’ve adopted your husband’s name?”

“My wife’s, actually.”

Sherlock heard John’s slight hitch in his breath while he was doing his best to smother his own frown – there was always something!

“And why, exactly, did you do that? Especially if your father’s name is well known in the artistic world… It should have helped in your line of work, shouldn’t it?”

Mrs Dubusson shot him a slight smile, the corners of her mouth quivering a little bit. Behind the tightly controlled mask she has put on, he could sense a powerful emotion welling up in her.

“It should have helped, had I not made personal… choices which caused this name to become more a burden than a real help. I’ve made my peace with them and I’m proud to bear my wife’s name, she has always been a true support for me and I’m very lucky to have her. Unfortunately, I can’t say the same for other… family members.”

She stopped and took a deep breath. In an unfamiliar show of restraint, Sherlock didn’t urge her to speak, focusing instead his attention on her.

“My birth name is Sylvain Palmeri. I was born as a male. Be assured that I wouldn’t bore you with all the little details of my personal story if they didn’t concern the reason for which you’re here. Three years ago, I decided to start my physical transition. I spoke about it quite freely with my family and friends. They already knew that I was transgender and they supported me in “going all the way”, as they said. Except for one person – my brother, Serge.”

Something about that name clicked into place in Sherlock’s mind. He has come across that name before.

“You may have heard of him,” Mrs Dubusson went on. “A while ago…”

“When that art historian claimed that the Mona Lisa portrait was based on Da Vinci’s male lover,” Sherlock interrupted her, ignoring John’s not so discreet splutter of surprise beside him. “I remember reading your brother’s answer to his allegations in a newspaper. It was vitriolic, to say the least.”

Her hostess’ smile was this time tinged with sadness.

“I’m afraid diplomacy and tolerance have never been Serge’s strong suit. You see, he has always resented me for being an “anomaly”, as he said. In his mind, people like me shouldn’t be allowed to exist. As soon as I became aware that I was born in the wrong body, I wasn’t shy of speaking about it and my brother couldn’t bear it. Therefore, he decided to punish me. For instance, he took great delight in proving me wrong or bringing me down every time he could. It wasn’t very surprising then I ended up holding him in abhorrence and distancing myself from him as soon as possible.”

Sherlock gritted his teeth. He wasn’t very surprised to realize he was feeling a very strong empathy with this woman. While he couldn’t be usually bothered to show some sympathy for the victims he was listening on – tears and kind words have never helped solving the cases, after all – there always have been exceptions.

Cases which hit a bit too close to home.

Especially when they concerned people suffering at the hands of others for being “different” – whatever the fuck that meant.

A warm touch on his hand made him jump in his seat. He shot a startled glance at John, who

gave him a little smile in return, patting his hand once or twice before pulling back and looking away. Sherlock realized only then his hand has been clenched into a fist. He cleared his throat before turning again to Mrs Dubusson, who was watching them with an amused glint in her eye.

“You were speaking of this art historian,” she said as if there had been no interruption, “who claimed the Mona Lisa was based on the portrait of Da Vinci’s male lover. In relation to this, I made the mistake, when being interviewed on that matter, to say that yes, it could have been plausible. After all, we know so little about Da Vinci’s personal life, there have been so many assumptions about the Mona Lisa… so why not? Of course, as for every theory in the artistic world, it should be corroborated with solid, tangible proof. I didn’t think anything of it until I received a call from my brother. He seemed to have considered this little speech of mine as a challenge to him.”

“What do you mean?” John asked.

She handed over a single page – luxury stationery, slanted handwriting.

“I’m afraid it’s written in French…”

“Not a problem for me,” Sherlock retorted, putting the document in front of him. He skimmed through it, eyebrows knitted together. He could sense John fidgeting in his seat. It seemed his friend has trouble repressing his natural curiosity as regards what appeared to be one of the oddest cases they have ever encountered.

He hoped for John’s sake they would be allowed to tell all about it on the blog afterwards.

“It seemed your brother has gone to great lengths to rise to your so-called challenge… and to pose one of his own to you in the process.”

“It would certainly appear like he did, yes. (Mrs Dubusson glanced at John and took pity on him.) In his letter, my brother said that after my declaration concerning the probability of the Mona Lisa’s hypothesis, he has made an investigation on his own, which was ultimately successful.”

John shot her a puzzled look.

“Successful?” he repeated. “Do you mean he would have found…?”

“Yes. He claimed to have found the proof confirming that the Mona Lisa portrait has indeed been partly based on another portrait. The one of Leonardo’s favourite apprentice, rumoured to have been his lover as well.”

The wonder washing across John’s features – which counted among John’s expressions Sherlock loved the best – strongly contrasted with Mrs Dubusson’s renewed calm.

“But…” he stammered out “how is it even possible!? I mean, all paintings or drawings of Leonardo are now surely in museums or private collections!”

She let out a gentle laugh.

“I’m afraid I must disabuse you of this assumption, doctor Watson. It still happens that works by famous artists that we believed lost long ago or that we didn’t even know they existed suddenly resurface, whether because they have been hidden in dusty attics or stolen by unscrupulous people.”

“Or both of them,” Sherlock mumbled under his breath, still examining Serge’s letter. It made no doubt that the man was mentally deranged, as the rest of this letter proved it.

“Okay but… If he has indeed discovered a new Leonardo, why did he send it to you?” John asked. “It must be worth a fortune!”.

“Yes, if what he said is true. But you don’t understand Serge’s motives in doing so. (She turned to Sherlock.) Can you please translate the rest of the letter for your friend?”

“Certainly. To sum it up, he claimed to have found this so far unknown portrait and to have put inside the box. He also said that if you (he glanced at Mrs Dubusson) didn’t manage to open it at the latest on December 31st 9 a.m. – that’s tomorrow morning by the way – whatever is contained in the box will be automatically destroyed.”

“What?” John cried out, eyes widening in astonishment. “That’s insane!”

“A sound conclusion, my dear Watson. Do you think it’s true?” he asked their hostess.

She sighed.

“I honestly think he’s perfectly able to have concocted such a scheme, just for the pleasure to watch me fail once again. But I can’t be sure, Serge has managed to hurt me so many times before, making me look like a fool. Since I’ve received this box, it’s… eating away at me. To think that I might have an undiscovered piece of art within my reach and to see it being reduced to ashes…”

She stopped, her breath loudly echoing in the sudden silence. Sherlock watched her, waiting for the inevitable question. And when it happened – “So, Mister Holmes, is this case interesting enough for you?” – he let his fierce joy shining in his eyes while replying

“Bring the box.”


	10. Chapter 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know what they say about the cat and curiosity ;)
> 
> * Translation of French sentences are to be found at the bottom of this chapter.
> 
> Hope you enjoy it!

Mrs Dubusson started to get up from her chair - “Well, in this case, I’ll go up and fetch it” – and John was already offering his help, when the office’s door banged open. Another woman came suddenly in, carrying in her arms a screaming child. She flashed a smile of apology to Sherlock and John but her attention was focused on Mrs Dubusson.

It was obviously her spouse, Sherlock realized, observing the easy interaction between them.

_« Désolée de te déranger, mais Maëlys n’arrête pas de pleurer. Elle te réclame. »*_

“Is that so, my dear?” Mrs Dubusson cooed to the child, who was piteously sniffing. “Don’t worry, little one, Mummy’ll come up very soon.” She then planted a kiss on her wife’s cheek.

_“Je vais arriver tout de suite, je dois aller chercher la boîte pour ces messieurs…”**_

The other woman’s eyes went round, surprise flitting in her gaze.

“Oh!” she gasped. “That’s such a relief, honestly…”

The affection in Mrs Dubusson’s gaze was shining so brightly Sherlock finally looked away, not so much affected by the intimacy between the two women than by the prospect of never experiencing it with the man he was pining for. He shook his head. Now was not the time to entertain such thoughts, not when there was a mystery to solve and…

“Are you all right?”

Sherlock abruptly turned his head, taken by surprise by John’s soft voice as much by the warm hand the doctor has just put on his. He has done it twice now, Sherlock absentmindedly thought, his attention focused on his friend’s face.

And he has done it in public.

What was the meaning of all this? Was John relaxing a little bit his obstinate “Not gay!” stance because they were abroad and thus not likely to be spotted by one of their Londonian acquaintances? It must be it.

It doesn’t mean that Sherlock couldn’t enjoy it while it lasted, though.

He turned his palm up, catching John’s fingers in his before he could pull back and giving them a small squeeze.

“I’m all right, John, thanks,” he replied.

He was expecting his friend to smile back at him before putting some distance again between them. What happened next caught him wholly unawares.

John was looking down at their joined hands.

Lips parted, soft wonder written on his features, as if he couldn’t believe that they were still holding hands.

Sherlock frowned before biting his lip.

Of course.

He was such a fool, honestly.

How could he have let himself believe that such a display of affection would have been welcomed by John Watson? Cheeks burning with embarrassment, he let go of John’s fingers, still caught between his, and tried to pull away. It was all right, he told himself, they could both forget it has ever happened and…

“No,” John practically growled, looking up once again at Sherlock, who found himself pinned down under his friend’s darkened gaze. “No.”

And as if this word wasn’t clear enough, he caught again Sherlock’s fingers in his, gently squeezing them; Sherlock couldn’t help letting out a small gasp when he felt John’s thumb lightly stroking the back of his hand. John’s blue gaze turned indigo as he stared at Sherlock’s mouth. The detective felt his heartbeat swiftly increasing.

“Sherlock, I…” He licked his lips. “I need to…”

“What?” Sherlock breathlessly answered, when he couldn’t endure John’s silence anymore. “You need to what?”

John shot him a hopeless glance, as if he couldn’t decide which word to use. And the confusion was written all across his face. A face that Sherlock has never found more beautiful than right at this moment. An insane, delirious madness fizzled in his veins, in his mind, suffusing his heart with such warmth Sherlock couldn’t resist.

_Fuck caution. Fuck everything I’ve been told._

_I’m going to do it._

He leaned forwards, his eyes never leaving John’s, noticing every small change in his gaze and finding nothing which would make him pull back. The moment seemed to stretch out for ever. John’s breath wafted over his face and Sherlock shivered, anticipating what was going – what was bound – to happen, already savouring…

The sound of a delicately clearing throat made him jump. Sherlock opened his eyes – since when have they been closed? – and found himself face to face with John’s startled gaze. Barely an inch remained between them.

His budding excitement and arousal swiftly disappeared, being replaced with embarrassment and growing anguish.

He was about to jump back in his seat, putting on his most indifferent face in a desperate attempt at salvaging things as best as he could – he could pretend, he could forget, he could ignore his heart screaming his refusal – when he glimpsed John’s little smile.

He was even more taken aback when he heard “Later” whispered to him before John pulled back, turning to their very amused hostess.

“ _Franchement, tu aurais pu attendre_ …”*** Mrs Dubusson’s spouse said, barely smothering her grin.

Sylvia only answered with a raised eyebrow before asking John

“Sorry to disturb you but could you please lend me a hand? The box is quite heavy and with this little one…” she said, giving a kiss to the child in her arms, clutching her blouse with all the strength of a koala.

“Oh yes, of course!” John exclaimed, getting up.

Sherlock immediately took advantage of this move, leaning forward and pickpocketing John’s phone without any difficulty.

He knew it was a serious breach of privacy, something that will make John annoyed with him to say the least (if he discovered it, of course) but he desperately needed a distraction, anything to keep his scrambled, lusty-befuddled mind off the near-kiss.

He concealed the mobile in his pocket just in time – John looked back at him, a small smile still on his face. He didn’t say anything else, but he didn’t need to after all.

Sherlock could still hear his soft “Later” ringing in his ears.

“We’ll be back in a second,” Mrs Dubusson said before slipping outside, followed by John.

Sherlock was left alone.

 

* * *

 

Unlocking John’s phone was child’s play – _always the same combination, how many times do I have to tell you, John?_

In this case, however, Sherlock didn’t get to complain much about it. He directly went to the most recent messages and frowned when he saw Greg’s name appearing on the screen. Not that he didn’t expect it – John didn’t have so many friends he would have called when he was abroad. The DI and him were more than just mates conveniently meeting at the pub for weekly nights, he knew as much. What he didn’t know, however, was why Lestrade has texted John “You owe me way more than a round of pints, you know!”.

He didn’t know either why John has replied “I’m sorry, mate. He’s truly a bastard.”

Sherlock felt his heart lurch in his chest. Were they talking about him? He racked his brains, trying to pinpoint exactly what might have been construed as offensive behaviour. Offensive enough for John to call him like that. And it hurt, especially after what they’ve almost shared in this very room, but who else… ?

Frustrated, he stared at the last message.

_Not enough data!_

He went back in the phone menu, hitting the call history icon. A shiver ran down his spine when he noticed John has called twice the DI tonight. Jealousy reared its ugly head but Sherlock relentlessly put it down. Surely, he would have noticed if there was something going on between these two.

_John wouldn’t play me. Not the John Watson I know._

In the meantime, he wasn’t much advanced.

Sherlock sighed.

There was only one way to find out more.

* * *

 

He pulled his own phone out of his pocket and without thinking about it too much, he called the DI. Lestrade answered just in time before Sherlock got the recorded message.

“Sh’lock?”

He groaned. Lovely.

“Lestrade. How drunk are you?”

Greg guffawed at the other end of the line.

“I thought I was comple… completely pissed but since I can _still_ talk to you…”

He heard the man swallowing several times and pulled a face as he imagined the DI drinking himself into a stupor in is flat.

“That better!” Greg declared. “And now… what you want, Sh’lock?”

“I want to know why John called you twice tonight,” Sherlock impatiently replied, not bothering to make up a story. With a bit of luck and given his current state, Lestrade wouldn’t be able to remember a thing come tomorrow.

Silence fell across them before Greg broke it with a chortle.

“Oh nonononono… I won’t teelllllll….”

Sherlock rolled his eyes before cutting off the drunk DI.

“Listen Lestrade,” he said in the most cutting voice he could muster, “I need to know which “bastard” you’re both speaking of.”

He didn’t dare voicing the question buzzing in his mind – _Is it me?_

“Nope,” Greg simply replied, stressing the “p”. “You don’t get to… interrogate me, you bloody, cheeky, toffee-nosed bastard…”

“Lestrade, you’re not making any sense...”

“Don’t care, I’m pissed! Don’t call me when I’m pissed, it’s…unfair, that’s what it is!”

Great. Sherlock was about to ring off, frustrated with himself and the DI, when the other man started to ramble on.

“With your bloody smart suits and your bloody speech and your bloody way of calling me “Detective Inspector”…”

“I never said…”

He suddenly stopped.

“Lestrade, who are you talking about?”

But the DI didn’t pay him the slightest bit of attention, too lost in whatever was filling his mind.

“Kicked to the curb like a bloody dog... Didn’t even give me an honest answer… Should have kissed you then, nothing to lose!”

Sherlock felt his eyes widen as he started to realize how wrong he has been in his assumptions.

“Lestrade…”

But he didn’t have time to add anything else as he heard the DI mumbling

“Call you Ice man… Mmmm… Let me find out exactly how icy you are…”

A wave of absolute horror washed over the detective as he finally understood who has been called “a bastard”.

“OH MY GOD!”

* * *

 

* "I'm sorry to disturb you but Maëlys can't stop crying. She's asking for you."

** "I'll come up soon, I need to fetch the box for these gentlemen"

*** "You could have waited a bit, you know"


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Meanwhile, back in London...  
> (I've said that they're idiots, hum...)

Mycroft Holmes was startled out of his sleep by his mobile’s ringtone.

He was lying down on his sofa. It was rare that slumber found him like this. Usually, he had time to eat one of the meals which were stockpiled in his fridge, nicely ordered according to their expiration date, and to get ready for the night before slipping under the sheets of his double bed. He frowned – it wasn’t like him to behave in such an unusual manner. Ignoring the painful reminder of what happened today – nothing important has occurred, he ordered to his brain, which didn’t seem to have got this particular memo – he sat up.

It took him two seconds, in his still drowsy state, to identify the specific ringtone he has recorded on his phone whenever Sherlock called him – some song called “Troublemaker”. He has never bothered to read the lyrics or even to listen to it, but the title has made him smile just a little bit.

It fit his little brother like a glove, after all.

He rubbed his tired eyes before reaching out for his mobile he has left on the coffee table. But before he could press the “Call” button, the phone stopped ringing.

Mycroft’s frown grew into a scowl.

His brother never rang off – not when he had the opportunity to spar over the phone with him, an exercise both of them would never admit that they still found enjoyable.

He gave an annoyed sigh before standing up and glancing at the clock.

Nearly midnight.

His heart gave a painful lurch when he thought that tomorrow, at this hour, people would be laughing, dancing in the streets and kissing their loved ones while wishing them a Happy New Year.

During a fleeting moment, the memory of a dark heated gaze danced before him while a warm voice whispered in his ear

_You might have learned how I seem to have developed a very fond spot for a lovely, completely handsome, devastatingly gorgeous individual working for the British government…_

Mycroft shook his head, ruthlessly chasing away this particular remembrance as well as any stupid, idiotic, completely imbecile hope Greg’s foolish words might have aroused.

It hasn’t been real.

None of this has been true.

_When have you ever been considered as lovely and handsome, heh?_

_Never_ , Mycroft answered to his own mind, absentmindedly padding along to the kitchen and pouring himself a glass of water. He drank it right away, the cool liquid soothing his parched throat.

He didn’t yet know what has come over Greg for behaving in such a manner towards him, but no worries, he’d suss them out.

Maybe he was trying to win some idiotic bet made with his colleagues- but in this case, he would have made his move in a more public setting, Mycroft thought, thus killing two birds with a stone – winning the bet and humiliating me in the process.

Or maybe Greg was just feeling lonely and he has tried to see if Mycroft was up for a quick tumble in bed. That must be it, he mused, ignoring the way his fingers were clenched around his glass. End of the year festivities might have strange effects on lonely minds, after all, pushing them to desperately seek anyone else willing enough to share the night with.

He carefully ignored the counter arguments his treacherous heart was coming out with and washed his glass before putting it again in the cupboard.

Whatever motives have nudged Greg – _No, Detective Inspector Lestrade, much better this_ _way_ – into chatting him up, he has chosen the wrong person to do so. Mycroft would generously forget this unfortunate incident and next time their paths met, it would happen in the most cordial and professional fashion.

Satisfied with this decision, he was about to go to the bathroom to perform his usual ablutions before bed when the “Troublemaker” ringtone echoed again.

He gritted his teeth, making a U-turn and walking in the living room. But, once again, as he reached out for the phone, the ringtone abruptly stopped.

The “two missed calls” notification on the mobile screen seemed to laugh at him.

What was Sherlock playing at? Mycroft wondered, frankly annoyed.

Well, it didn’t really matter, he thought as he hit the “Redial” option. Sherlock would hear of him now, whether he wanted it or not.

To his slight surprise, Sherlock immediately answered.

“Brother,” Mycroft started, “to what do…”

“No, no, no! I can’t talk to you right now!” Sherlock cut him off, his voice booming indignantly in the receiver. Mycroft immediately took the phone away from his ear, pulling a wry face. He knew that his brother’s manners were not quite up to the mark, but to reply in such a way…

“Keep your voice down, brother,” he sharply retorted, “I do not fancy becoming deaf in one ear because of you…”

“That’s the least of my worries right now!” Sherlock replied. “Oh my God, I can’t believe it… Ring off, Mycroft, I really can’t talk to you… Even hearing your voice and… Eurgh!”

He rolled his eyes. His brother was _such_ a drama queen sometimes!

“If you can’t talk to me now like you said, why did call you me twice, then?”

“I don’t know!” Sherlock practically wailed.

A shiver ran down Mycroft’s spine as he was forcefully reminded of Sherlock’s least glorious moments. Granted, they’ve all happened before John came into his life, but Mycroft was under no illusions as regards his brother’s unfortunate relationship with drugs – the temptation will always be there.

And that’s why he spared no pains to draw him from time to time into cases and other mysteries he hoped would manage to keep his brother’s attention. Boredom was dangerous for Sherlock. Activity, combined with the close watch John seemed to keep over Sherlock, was the best solution.

He drew a sharp breath, instinctively lowering his voice.

“Tell me what’s happening?” he asked in a tone he hoped was coaxing enough to his brother. “Has some… problem arisen?”

It shouldn’t have been the case and especially not in the sleepy little town of Amboise. Mycroft couldn’t deny he has been surprised to hear from Sylvia and has found himself intrigued by the predicament she was in, but in no way, has he considered the situation as truly dangerous. Otherwise he would never have sent Sherlock off to France. His mind was already busy examining which resources he might call upon tonight when he heard Sherlock barking a mirthless laugh.

“A problem other than knowing way too much information about you and Les… Oh, I can’t even say his name, it’s too awful!!”

Mycroft remained frozen on the spot, his thoughts derailing completely as he heard Sherlock moaning about “his state of mind” at the other end.

Being suddenly doused with icy cold water would have had the same effect.

He couldn’t believe it.

Sherlock _knew_ what had happened this afternoon in his office.

He _knew_ because Detective Inspector Lestrade has been babbling about, no doubt recasting the events in such a way that Mycroft found himself the butt for ridicule.

“Mycroft, I swear to you, if anything happens between… between…”

His cheeks burning with humiliation, Mycroft heard himself replying in the blandest voice he could muster.

“None of your business, brother mine. Solve your case and enjoy your time in France.”

And ignoring Sherlock’s cry of outrage, he rang off.

He remained motionless for a while, taking deep breaths, the only noise troubling the deep silence of his flat.

The furious embarrassment he has felt was fading. In its stead, a wave of indignant anger welled up within him, growing so sharp that Mycroft was trembling from head to toe.

He has been such a fool, allowing himself to grow fond of this man, his warm gaze and bright smile clouding Mycroft’s judgment; To think he has considered the DI as someone kind and considerate while in truth…

_He’s no better than the others._

He’ll come to regret his indiscretion, he promised himself, before striding to his dressing room. He briskly opened his wardrobe, choosing with no hesitation whatsoever the poshest suit he owned. He wasted no time getting dressed before putting on impeccably polished shoes and calling for his driver.

Into battle, he thought before going out of his flat.

Him and Detective Inspector Lestrade were going to have a long talk about the precise meaning of personal matters.


	12. Chapter 12

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Small Trigger warning here : fatshaming.

Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade was being pleasantly buzzed. Well, if he was really honest with himself, he was a bit more than that.

Tipsy, he would say.

Certainly not drunk.

He could hold his liquor, after all. No problem, he snorted, trying to get up from the very comfortable, a bit misshapen blue sofa taking up half the place in his living room. After a few unsuccessful minutes during which his legs were apparently wobbling for no reason, he finally managed to stand up, shooting a victorious grin at the small statuette which has gained a place of honour on the shelf after Greg’s last moving.

“See, boy? Still got it!”

The “boy” didn’t answer, of course. Although Greg sometimes was ready to swear that the small statuette, with his grin so large bordering on ridiculous, was somehow laughing at him.

“Oh, shut up, you fucker,” he mumbled, giving him the finger before stumbling along in his way to the kitchen.

In truth, the statuette has been the last thing Pamela has offered him. They were spending a few days in Egypt, playing the happy couple in public while in private they were trying to patch up things between them.

At least, Greg has thought so until Pam has spotted one day the statuette in a stall in Cairo’s bazaar district. She started laughing immediately, her obvious amusement drawing Greg to her side.

“What’s so funny?” he has whispered in her ear, already smiling and ready to share the joke.

She has then pointed the small figurine out to him.

“He looks just like you when you got out of the bathroom this morning!” she has replied, howling with laughter afterwards. Greg has remained frozen on the spot, staring at the statuette’s lumpy, unattractive shape – his round thighs, his potbelly, his stunted stature…

And it has been even worse when the seller, who has obviously been eyeing them from his shop, informed them that the statuette was depicting Bes, an old Egyptian deity, “the god of dance, feasts and sex”.

“Ah! God knows you could use some help in that department!” Pam has claimed, a smile still blooming on her lips, before buying the figurine right away and giving it to him “as a gift”.

It was a wonder he hasn’t thrown it against the nearest wall that day, Greg mused as he dubiously peered at the contents of his fridge. If he wanted to drink all night without suffering from the mother of all hangovers come morning, he should eat something, patting his stomach, which was definitely not as large as Bes’, fuck you very much Pam.

He finally opted for a bag of crackers, pulling it out from one half-empty cupboard before coming back to his beloved sofa and glancing once again at the Bes statue.

Without any surprise, the trip to Egypt has been the final nail in the coffin of his marriage to Pam. They broke up a few days later, Greg fleeing their house in Lambeth and taking Bes with him as a very concrete reminder never to let himself be trapped into a relationship again.

He let out a loud laugh, remembering those first days of divorced/once again bachelor life, when he has been determined to enjoy one night stands while keeping an absolute freedom.

“Wish I had remembered it earlier,” he said, raising his still half-full glass in a drunken salute to Bes.

Instead he has come onto the one man who could make him vanish without a trace.

In fact, it was a real wonder he was still alive, Greg dejectedly mused. Time for another drink, he decided, before he got really maudlin about it. Thank whatever fucking deity he got a rest day on New Year’s Eve – he didn’t think he could have faced another day at work, struggling with the small mountain of forms and other papers waiting for him on his desk while trying not to think about Mycroft and miserably failing.

He took a first gulp of whatever was still in his glass, enjoying the burn it left in his throat, while watching Bes’ still smiling face.

“You could have… hips! Sorry… helped me earlier, y’ know… I mean, if you’re really a sex god or something…” he mumbled, feeling his eyes closing of their own volition.

Maybe a short nap in the sofa was in order before he resumed his drinking night. Greg was about to put his glass on the coffee table – when has this one started to move, really? – and to lie down when he heard sharp knocks at the flat’s door.

He frowned. Better not be Donovan or whoever the fuck thought it was all right to disturb him. He briefly toyed with the idea of lying low, but at this moment there was a second flurry of knocks at his door. Whoever that was seemed to be absolutely determined to break in on his drinking night.

He sighed before crying out “Coming, for God sake!” and shuffling along to the door. He abruptly opened it – as soon as he found the handle, anyway – and was ready to tear the intruder a new one when he found himself face to face with the loveliest, most ravishing, completely gorgeous illusion ever.

He stared at it, open-mouthed, before feeling his lips quirking up in a dopy grin.

Bes, you generous bastard.

Of course, Greg knew deep down that the chance of finding Mycroft Holmes on his doorstep, dressed up to the nines – he even got the umbrella in tow! – glaring at him in a way which makes Greg want to pin him up against the nearest wall and snog him until the man forgot his name, was non-existent.

Of course, it was an illusion! He wasn’t a DI for nothing, after all.

Mycroft-illusion sighed.

“You’re drunk.”

Greg felt his smile widen.

It talked! With that perfectly posh accent he only heard Mycroft use and…

Oh, it was better than Christmas!

He was so far gone in his admiration that he barely registered Mycroft-illusion speech until he saw it stepping back.

“What a perfect loss of time. I… I must go, we should talk later.”

What was it saying? Greg wondered, alarmed. It couldn’t leave! Not so soon, anyway!

He reached out without thinking, his fingers grasping as carefully as he could Mycroft’s waistcoat – it was so soft, Greg happily mused, that illusion was so perfect! – and pulling it closer.

“Detective Inspector! I insist…”

The illusion suddenly stopped talking as Greg took advantage of their proximity to nuzzle the soft skin of this long, graceful neck.

“Shhh,” he whispered, breathing in the man’s cologne.

Greg didn’t realize a litany of “perfect, you’re perfect” was tumbling out of his lips.

He heard the hitch in the illusion’s breath as it again tried to resist.

“Detective…”

“Shhh. (Greg pulled back a little, looking up at this ravishing Mycroft.) Shouldn’t wake the neighbours.”

He tugged a little the waistcoat.

“Come inside, you gorgeous thing.”

* * *

 

Wonder of all wonders, the illusion didn’t even protest this time, obediently following him in the living room until Greg has closed the door behind him. He didn’t deny himself the pleasure of eyeing up and down the flawless masterpiece currently standing in his living room. He heard a hard swallow – was he dreaming or was it a blush spreading across the illusion’s perfect face?

He happily sighed. Oh, it was even more gorgeous like that!

“Stop calling me that!”

“Why?” Greg frowned. “It’s the truth.”

He winked at Bes.

“And you know it, you bastard!”

Mycroft looked at him oddly.

“Are you talking to inanimate objects, now?”

Greg giggled, trying to come closer to this fascinating man without being unsubtle about it and failing quite spectacularly.

“You don’t… hips!...understand… He’s a friend.”

“Oh, is he?” the illusion countered, observing Greg’s advance with an anxious eye. He didn’t go away though.

“Yes!” Greg stumbled over the sofa, holding on to the back. “See, my ex gave it to me as…a joke, saying that we looked alike.”

Mycroft’s face darkened but he didn’t say anything.

“She wanted to make a… mock of me… or whatever I don’t care now. The point is…”

He took a deep breath – yes, he could smell again this fantastic cologne!

“You know who he is, right?”

“Yes. Bes, an Egyptian god of dance, war and…”

“Sex!” Greg cried out in a louder voice than intended.

He frowned. He didn’t mean to sound so… juvenile about it, as if he still was a 14-year-old daydreaming about it (and soiling his sheets in the morning.)

The illusion cleared his throat – oh, he was definitely flushed now!

“Too much information, I think…” he faintly said, looking away.

“The point is,” Greg repeated, not wanting to lose the thread of their discussion right now. “I asked him a bit of help in... you know and here you are!”

He shot what he hoped was his typical Wanna-have-a-good-time-now? smile at Mycroft but considering how his face abruptly shut down, his attempt didn’t turn out to be very successful.

“Right. My apologies, Detective Inspector, I’m afraid I must take my leave now. (The illusion gathered again the umbrella he has put against the sofa.) I hope you won’t suffer too much in the morning.”

“Wait, wait!”

Before it could pull back, Greg put both hands on his arm.

“Unhand me right now,” the illusion growled in a threatening manner.

Greg refused to be intimidated though.

“Not until you told me what’s wrong!”

“I don’t have to justify myself to you…”

“Tell me!” Greg cut him off, his eyes never leaving the illusion’s blue-grey gaze.

They stood there looking at each other, each of them resolute in not giving in, until Greg suddenly broke the silence, laughing a bit helplessly.

“You’re so much like him…”

He hadn’t meant to say it out loud. Mycroft raised an eyebrow.

“I really hope you’re not talking about Sherlock right now…”

“What? No! I mean the other one… Mycroft!”

There was an alarmed look right now in the illusion’s eyes.

“You don’t even know who…”

“Oh hush, let me speak! I know it’s not real, okay? I mean…” Greg released Mycroft’s arm but he didn’t seem to have noticed, standing still. “Can you just imagine someone like him coming to my home and… standing there?”

His voice lowered as he caught Mycroft’s gaze once again.

“Of course not. It’s a dream.”

Greg did then what he has wanted since he has laid eyes on his visitor. He raised a hand which was trembling a little bit until it rested against Mycroft’s cheek. His heart was racing in his chest, he didn’t know why, but it truly didn’t matter. His thumb lightly stroked against the prominent cheekbone. He felt rather than heard the illusion’s little sigh while enjoying the moment to the fullest. He stared at the other’s face, trying to commit each detail to memory – the almost non-existent rasp of his stubble, apart from the few hairs having escaped the razor; the straight, long nose; the way his eyelids were fluttering close, as if he didn’t dare letting down his guard; The thin lips about which Greg has fantasized more than once.

“Beautiful,” he whispered.

A single word which broke the spell.

The illusion suddenly pulled back. Greg acutely felt the cold on his skin.

“What do you want, Gregory?”

Greg smiled – it was an easy question.

“You,” he immediately replied.

“I have gathered,” Mycroft drily retorted. “But what for? Getting a leg over at the end of the day?”

Greg gave a great sigh and crossed his arms, looking at the other crossly.

“For a genius, you sure could be a right idiot! Of course not!”

He stepped aside Mycroft, waving at the Bes statuette on its shelf.

“When Pam gave it to me, all I wanted was throw it away and forget all about it. Do you know why I put it here, then?”

Mycroft shook his head.

“As a reminder never to let myself getting involved in something serious. Something which could leave me broken and battered and… I didn’t want it anymore.”

He took a deep breath, feeling the well-being induced by alcohol leaving his system. Gosh, he’d really need a drink when the illusion had vanished.

For the moment, however, it was still here.

“What changed your mind, then?” Mycroft softly asked. “If it has indeed changed…”

“It has. Thanks to you.”

He felt all his guards, all the masks he would more or less willingly put on dropping at his feet. He was opening up, laying himself bare to this man’s gaze.

It was completely terrifying.

And exciting as well.

Greg licked his lips and forged ahead.

“I want you in my bed, yes. I also want you in this sofa, when we’ll cuddle together while watching telly. I want you in my kitchen, looking all prim and proper while I’ll prepare breakfast and pour you a cup of whatever you drink in the morning. I want you by my side on the street, whether you’ll let me hold your hand or not, it’s not important and…”

He took a step forward.

“I want you in my office late one day, when there’s no one around but you and me and that we finally have a bit of time for us. Tell me, Mycroft, do you think you’d enjoy me getting on my knees before I…”

“Stop.”

The illusion’s face was flushed, it has closed its eyes as if it couldn’t bear the sight of Greg and he fell his stomach giving a sickening lurch.

Greg looked away, dejected. How could he have misread to such an extent all the signs, he truly didn’t know, but he had to face the facts – far from turning this lovely illusion on, it was feeling repelled by what he was saying.

He suddenly felt a hand under his chin, forcing him to look up.

He found himself caught in a darkened grey gaze, bright with lust and fear and a thousand other emotions.

But what really got to him was this growly, raspy whisper

“I swear to God, Gregory Lestrade, if I ever found you lied to me…”

“Fuck off, Mycroft,” Greg cut him off. “And now give me a good night kiss.”

“Provided you would remember it come morning…”

“It all depends on your performance, then,” Greg replied cheekily, already leaning in.

He briefly glimpsed Mycroft’s little smile before there were lips on his and no words were needed any more.


	13. Chapter 13

The first thing John Watson noticed when he came back to the room where he has left Sherlock, trying to open the door without dropping the heavy box in his arms – Serge Dubusson must really be crazy to send such a parcel to his sister, it had to cost a bloody fortune to consign it to France! – was Sherlock seated on a chair, shoulders slumped. His head was bent, mad curls fallen in disarray all around his face as if the detective has run his hands repeatedly in them. Although John couldn’t see clearly his face, Sherlock looked like the very picture of misery and John’s heart missed a beat.

The first thought popping into his mind was that Sherlock was sorry for what has nearly happened between them.

But it didn’t sound right, John mused, as he remembered the expectation clearly written on Sherlock’s face just before he has leant in, nearly kissing John in public and not caring a whit about it. A shiver ran down his spine as he carefully put the box on Mrs Dubusson’s desk before coming closer to his friend, padding carefully as if he didn’t want to spook him.

“Sherlock?”

He only heard a whimper before Sherlock raised his head, a dejected expression written all over his face. Despite his self-confidence and his very conviction that Sherlock wasn’t regretting their near kiss, John swallowed hard.

“What happened?”

Sherlock gave a deep sigh before pulling out of his pocket something John instantly recognized.

“That’s my mobile!”

“Brilliant deduction.”

“Why… Oh for fuck’s sake, how many times do I have to tell you not to go through my things?” John said, his previous worry turning to annoyance. “There’s such a thing as privacy, you know!”

“Rest assured,” Sherlock gloomily mumbled, “this is a lesson I’ll _never_ forget.”

Taken aback by this unexpected confession, John stared at him, trying to decipher what was going in his brilliant mind. He narrowed his eyes – what could he have discovered in John’s phone to be so upset about it?

And then he remembered the last exchange of texts between him and Greg.

How he has called Mycroft a “bloody bastard” without naming him.

John bit his lip, hesitant about whether coming clean to Sherlock and betraying Greg’s confidence or remaining silent, at the risk of Sherlock misunderstanding his last text and taking offence at something which wasn’t meant for him…

Fuck, no. No more misunderstandings between them, no more things left unsaid. Not when they both seemed so close to finally take this last bloody step remaining between them.

“You’re thinking so loudly I can practically hear you fretting yourself,” Sherlock declared with a heavy sigh.

He shot a reproachful glance at John.

“You might have told me, you know. Before I came across that and was scarred for life!”

John could practically hear “I thought we were friends!” in a whining voice. He tried not to show his amusement.

“That’s what you get for snooping into my phone. Besides, how did you deduce…”

“Because I called Lestrade,” Sherlock cut him off.

“You what?” John exclaimed. “But why? Were you really so curious about…?”

“Because I was worried!” Sherlock snapped, staring at him, incensed.

Worried.

That’s not a word Sherlock often used, especially as far as John was concerned. Sherlock could show his regard and affection in many ways, but for him to say out loud such a thing… John was completely amazed.

His soft voice broke the silence which has fallen between them.

“You were worried I have called you “a bloody bastard”, weren’t you?”

It was a rhetorical question – John didn’t see what else Sherlock could have got worried about – but something in him _needed_ to hear Sherlock’s answer. A single confession which revealed Sherlock’s human side, this vulnerability that he so carefully concealed behind his genius mind and his sharp tongue.

Sherlock remained silent, but managed to give a slight nod.

John felt warmth spreading across his whole being, his skin tingling with need, with the unstoppable desire to touch the man he has fallen for a long time ago. He didn’t even realize he has knelt down before Sherlock until he had to raise his hand to put a gentle finger under Sherlock’s chin.

“Look at me,” he whispered – an order that Sherlock obeyed without any protest, blinking surprised eyes at John.

“What…?”

“Shhhh,” John softly said. And without thinking about it too long, he silenced him with the tender touch of his forefinger on Sherlock’s mouth. A calm as strange as it was unexpected suffused John’s soul as he observed the ever-changing landscape of Sherlock’s eyes – widening in surprise before becoming shockingly open and trusting.

At this moment, John wanted nothing more than drawing Sherlock into his arms, hugging him until there was no doubt in Sherlock’s mind that John was as involved as him in this newfound intimacy quickly evolving between them.

How he wanted to kiss these soft lips, slightly chapped in some places, licking them until they opened for him and…

Only the thought of the box still resting on the desk near them stopped him from taking that kiss which has so often appeared of late in his fantasies. He didn’t want to start this… thing between them before Sherlock had to go back to the Work. No – he wanted Sherlock’s attention focused on him and only him when they would finally be on their own and have all the time they needed to explore the shift in their relationship.

It didn’t mean it was easy to resist the temptation to lean in and to take what Sherlock seems to offer so freely to him. With the vivid flush spreading across his cheekbones, his eyes darkened with want and this lush mouth whose softness John still could feel against his skin, he looked like the very picture of desire, ready to be kissed and debauched. He swallowed hard before whispering in a rough voice.

“I’ll never, never call you a “bloody bastard”, do you hear me?”

An amused glint gleamed in Sherlock’s gaze before he pulled back just enough so that each movement of his lips grazed John’s fingers as he asked

“Even if I told you I called Mycroft afterwards?”

John’s mind was so lust-fogged it took him a shamefully long moment and Sherlock smirking at him to understand what has just been said. The intimate moment they had just shared disappeared as he stared at his friend in astonishment.

“What?? But why? Oh my God, I hope you haven’t made things even worse for Greg…”

“Worse? How could they be worse when he has been “kicked to the curb”, as he so charmingly put it?” Sherlock stood up, agitatedly waving his hands. “You don’t understand John, I had to be sure!”

John stood up as well, peering doubtfully at his friend.

“Sure of what?” he asked before a sudden thought tumbled in his mind. He groaned.

“Oh no… Let me guess, you called Mycroft, gloated over what happened in his office and generally irritated the shit out of him, is that right?”

Sherlock turned to him, his whole face the perfect picture of outrage.

“I wasn’t gloating! I was distressed!”

“By what? The fact that he could have a sex life?”

“Oh my God,” Sherlock nearly screeched, “don’t say “Mycroft” and “sex” in the same sentence ever again!”

John shook his head, smothering a smile at Sherlock’s antics.

“You’re a right prat, you know. I really hope you haven’t made a mess even worse than what it already was…”

He moved closer to Sherlock, putting a hand on his shoulder in order to attract his attention.

“Mind you, it could be worse.”

Sherlock glanced at him.

“You could be Mycroft’s best man at their wedding!”

This time, Sherlock’s screech was so loud John couldn’t help but burst out laughing.


	14. Chapter 14

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A study in frustration... but not for long :)  
> Thanks to all, I love getting your comments and Kudos!

“You’ll pay for this, you know,” Sherlock darkly muttered as he tried to delete as quickly as possible the frankly horrifying vision which has sprung to his mind as soon as he heard John’s words. John shot him an unrepentant grin.

“Bring it on, posh boy, I’m sure I can take it!”

And the desire which was never far from Sherlock’s thoughts when John stood by his side, laughing and smiling so openly as he was wont to do, roared once again in his heart, suffusing his whole body with the desire to touch and to own this amazing man. Their gazes locked in a scorching embrace, electric tension crackling between them. All trace of amusement fled John’s face as he hungrily looked at him.

“Fuck, Sherlock…”

Sherlock heard the raw need fuelling his own and he would have caved in, pouncing on his prey before devouring him whole as he so often dreamed of it, if a French voice wasn’t heard at this moment through the ceiling, bringing him back to reality and to the reason they were both here.

Sherlock dropped his gaze to the box on the desk before glancing back at John. The only silver lining in this situation was that the same frustration Sherlock was feeling was written all over John’s face. However, a small smile quirked up his lips when he saw Sherlock observing him.

“Come on,  _posh boy_ ,” he said, emphasizing these two words and not missing the shiver running down Sherlock’s spine when he heard these, “you have a mystery to solve.”

 

* * *

 

“The box” was an accurate description for Serge’s poisoned gift to his sister. A heavy, black safe, Sherlock mused, touching its smooth outline with the utmost care. On the front side lay a small black screen and below it, a numeric keypad. Sherlock leant in to observe it and a red light immediately came to life, attracting his attention as well as John’s.

“What is it?”

Sherlock felt a mirthless smile blooming on his lips as he looked in the small camera lens half-hidden in the box’s compact body. 

“This fucker is observing us,” he drawled, noticing right away the slight hitch in John’s breath –  _so, you like me swearing?_  – and how he tried to hide it with his next question.

“But how?”

“This safe has obviously a built-in web hacking tool. It’s using the local Wi-Fi network without a doubt. Interesting,” Sherlock said, standing up and pulling back a little, “I didn’t know the latest model of this kind of safe has been fitted out like this…”

“This kind of safe?” John repeated, frowning a little.

“Auto-ignition safes,” Sherlock absentmindedly answered. “If you attempt to break into it, what’s inside will immediately be destroyed.”

John’s eyes widened in astonishment.

“Wow,” he gasped. “It’s basically  _Mission: Impossible_  then! You know the whole “this tape will self-destruct in ten seconds..” game!”

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

“Another one of your classics movies, I take it?”

“Don’t take it like that, you liked it well enough when we watched it last month.”

Sherlock let out a disbelieving snort, but didn’t insist. Of course, there has been no clue in Serge’s letter to his sister as to hint at which combination will open the box. The whole thing was doomed from the start – they could try any combination and be none the wiser when the deadline will be reached. It wasn’t so much a trap than a way for Serge to beat once again his sister at a game whose rules he was the only one to know.

He stared at the camera and, with a surge of vindictiveness he usually only felt in the presence of such idiots like Anderson, he promised himself to defeat the homophobic, arrogant pig who was surely watching them right now and laughing at them being powerless.

_That’s what you’re thinking!_

“You know,” John hesitatingly broke the silence, “this reminds me of the  _Da Vinci Code_ …”

Sherlock frowned.

“Which code are you talking about?”

“You’ve never heard of… No, never mind, don’t answer that”, John replied with a little smile before launching into a short explanation of the bestselling novel’s plot.

Utterly dull, Sherlock thought while holding his tongue though. He might as well listen to John’s story since he didn’t have the first clue as how to open this box.

“… so Langdon and Sophie managed to escape the police and they found in a bank vault a cryptex. (John pointed the small black screen out.) And it exactly used the same system, of course without the spy device inside!”

“I assume they managed to open this so called cryptex?”

“Yes. They deduced it will open with… Oh, I don’t know any more how it’s called, it’s a well-known sequence of numbers by mathematicians and…”

“The Fibonacci sequence,” Sherlock guessed without missing a beat. He didn’t miss either the admiring glance John shot his way. He pursed his mouth – could the solution to their own mystery be so obvious? As arrogant Serge Dubusson appeared to be, Sherlock didn’t see why this man would opt for such facility, especially since his sister was certainly aware of Leonardo’s love story with numbers and maths. What was the  _Vitruvian Man_  after all, but a canon of perfect human proportions?  

No, Sherlock mused, in order to find a clue, he had to turn away from all knowledge related to Da Vinci and to look elsewhere.

“Hey, look at this,” John suddenly said, bending over and examining the bottom right corner of the safe. “Something has been scratched out here…”

Sherlock imitated him and saw immediately that John was right. Something – probably a logo – has been meticulously wiped off until a mere shadow only remains. It was nearly imperceptible and one had to have eyes like a hawk, Sherlock thought, looking fondly at his friend, to see it.

He lightly brushed his fingers against what has been left. A Cheshire’s grin bloomed on his lips. He could practically feel John, who was observing him, vibrating with excitement and trepidation. 

“You know,” he said, standing up again, his voice sounding quite nonchalant to his ears, “only three brands are currently marketing this type of safe. Two of them are American and as far as I know, they didn’t put any logo or whatsoever on their products…”

“Okay. And the last one?” John asked.

“The last one is Russian,” Sherlock answered, savouring each word rolling on his tongue. “It’s the Mizulina firm, named after the father of Mikhail Mizulin. You may have heard of his wife a few years ago – Yelena Mizulina.”

John’s face was completely blank as Sherlock expected.

“She’s the author of several legislative projects directed against "propaganda of homosexuality" including the infamous Russian LGBT propaganda law,” he resumed, observing closely John.

He saw the moment it all clicked into place.

“Oh,” John gasped.

Sherlock smiled without any restraint. He must look like a bloody fool, but right now he didn’t care.

“A patently obvious homophobe using a safe marketed by the family of this infamous law’ author? Can’t really be a coincidence… John, can you look on your phone when this has been implemented?”

It only took a few moments before John replied

“It was signed into law by Putin on 30 June 2013.”

_Got you!_

He didn’t think about it too long – he hastened to hit the corresponding numbers on the numeric keypad. The screen lit up as he entered the code, bloody figures casting a red glow on the black box.

A shrill sound echoed suddenly in the room. Sherlock felt John’s sharp intake of breath by his side, but didn’t dare looking at him.

If he got it wrong…

A click followed and the upper part of the box suddenly popped out, revealing what was inside – the handle of a smaller case. But Sherlock didn’t really pay attention to it. How could he when all he was feeling was John’s hand on his, all he was hearing was his “Oh my God, you did it, you genius!”, all he was seeing was the overwhelming joy and pride in John’s blue eyes?

“ _We_ did it,” he growled.

It was the most natural thing in the world to put both hands around John’s dear, beloved face, to watch the sudden shift in his attitude.

“We did it. Together.”

“Together,” John whispered. “And now kiss me.”

“As you wish,” Sherlock replied, his heart hammering in his chest and finally taking the risk, this very last step which remained between them.

He kissed him.


	15. Chapter 15

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You didn't think I have forgotten you, did you? :)

Unfortunately, apart from the exciting opening of the box, the rest of the investigation didn’t turn out to be successful. The smaller case which has been hidden inside contained nothing but ashy powder and Mrs Dubusson wisely decided to send it to a private lab first rather than examining themselves. There was just no way to know if what Serge has sent to her revealed itself to be a threat to her and her family or if it was included in a prank intended to hurt her in her expertise about Da Vinci and her self-esteem.

“He may have introduced this powder from the start. You will have no way to know if it has already been there before the box caught fire,” Sherlock stated.

John fidgeted by his side, playing absentmindedly with the frayed sleeve of his jumper. His gaze was focused on his shoes as if they were a fascinating subject and Sherlock gritted his teeth. He was missing John’s voice whispering “Brilliant”. Most of all he was eager to come out of this room. The case has lost all its appeal and he wanted nothing else than to focus on the only thing he has wanted to thoroughly investigate for ages – John.

Provided that his friend was always on board with this idea.

Sherlock tried to keep it cool, remembering John’s eyes darkening just before he has literally begged Sherlock for a kiss.

_Don’t tell me you regret it now, please, please, please!_

He realized he was impatiently foot-tapping, something that Mrs Dubusson has noticed, as the amused glance she shot at him proved.

“You’re right, Mister Holmes,” she replied, holding out her hand to him. “I’ll inform you of the lab results. In the meantime, I hope you’ll both enjoy the many _pleasures_ Amboise has to offer, especially in this season.”

John suddenly let out a strangled sound, clearing his throat awkwardly afterwards and Sherlock frowned.

Has she just made some kind of sexual innuendo?

However, as he peered at her, she kept a perfectly bland face, a benign smile on her lips.

There was just no way of telling with these French people!

* * *

 

Icy cold air greeted them both as they came out of the _Clos Lucé_ and Sherlock shivered, instinctively snuggling up in his coat. At this hour, nobody else was out in the streets and the dreary weather was an efficient deterrent for any nosy-body who might have disturbed the discussion which was looming on the horizon for both of them.

Sherlock waited for two extremely long minutes, their footsteps echoing on the walls around them, before stopping and staring at John.

As if he has sensed Sherlock’s intent – or was he waiting for it? – John came to a halt. He still wasn’t looking at the detective though and he remained two meters away from him. A deep silence fell between them, only disturbed by the sound of their quick, hard breath. Sherlock didn’t understand the sudden shift in John’s mood – hasn’t he flirted with him before? He could still hear John’s warm, languorous voice ordering him to kiss him. Has he imagined all the tension between them?

“John?”

He hated how his voice betrayed his inner turmoil, sounding more like a teenager’s, unsure of himself and what he was feeling, than the grown-up’s he was supposed to be.

John gave a little sigh before finally looking up at him.

Sherlock’s heart gave a lurch as he recognized the various emotions warring against themselves in John’s gaze – fading hope and increasing resignation, with a hint of bitter disappointment which hurt Sherlock the most.

Their kiss has been one of the most wonderful things Sherlock has ever experienced in his life, something which felt right and natural, but obviously it hasn’t been the same for John.

They started to talk at the same time.

“You asked me to kiss you…”

“Sherlock, I’m sorry…”

John stopped at first, letting out a humourless little laugh.

“You first,” he said in a brittle voice.

Sherlock found himself at a loss – how has it turned so awkward so fast between them? He swallowed hard, his mouth turning dry and he made a conscious effort to open his mouth, his words forcing their way out.

“You asked me to kiss you,” he repeated.

“I did.”

“You told me ‘later’… You… you flirted with me!”

He could hear himself growing restless, he mentally cringed at this, but it was too late, a searing pain was spreading across his chest and he couldn’t stop it. He just couldn’t.

“I know!”, John brutally snapped, his anguished voice echoing around them. He ran both hands through his short hair, turning it even more spiked than it already was. It would have been an endearing sight under other circumstances, Sherlock thought. Right now, he just felt numb, as if he was teetering on the edge of a ravine, ready to fall down. What a fool he has been. So sure that what he was feeling was mutual, that John was only waiting for a move, a clue, a sign…

He closed his eyes, trying to delete everything which has just happened.

He has ruined everything as usual and…

“I’m sorry,” John whispered in a broken voice which hurt Sherlock’s ears. “I thought that I could do this but…”

He shook his head and his pain was so clear to see Sherlock found in himself the necessary strength to try to soothe him.

“It’s okay, John, it’s me who should be sorry. I thought…” He shrugged. “It doesn’t matter anyway. I completely understand you regret...”

“I don’t! That’s the whole problem!”

* * *

 

What?

Sherlock looked down at him, his distressing thoughts coming to a crashing halt. John raised a placating hand.

“Let me speak, okay? I need to tell you this, God knows it might be my only chance to do this…”

His blue eyes were filled with such sincerity Sherlock couldn’t do anything but nod.

“I’m… I’m sorry. You were right, I flirted with you earlier, I even nearly kissed you when we were both on top of that wall! (He licked his lips.) Truth is, I’ve been waiting for a very long time for you to kiss me, Sherlock Holmes.”

Sherlock remained frozen on the spot, his mind overwhelmed with possibilities and dreams he has been having when he dared to imagine that one day, John would be more than his closest friend.

“When you kissed me in there… I felt like it was Christmas and my birthday all in one, you know. But then I realized I haven’t talked to you. I haven’t told you what I wanted from you. And getting physical right from the start, taking the other’s feelings for granted and believing he has the same intents as you? Not a mistake I’m willing to make. Not with you.”

John glanced at him one last time, an expression of such intensity on his beloved face Sherlock was completely mesmerized.

“I… I can’t do casual with you. I thought I could let myself jump into bed with you or just do whatever you wanted to do and it would be enough. I know you’re not interested in something… long-term and it’s okay. I understand. However, I’m… I’m in too deep, Sherlock. I…”

He remained silent for a while, strangled sounds coming from his mouth, before giving up. A smile so sharp it was painful to watch bloomed on his lips.

“I can’t even say it,” he whispered in the cold night air.

It was a good thing, Sherlock mused, that he didn’t need any words to know what was going on in John’s mind. Opening his mouth and letting the words he has long kept for himself finally tumbling out has never felt so easy.

So right.

“I love you too, John Watson.”

John looked up at him so quickly Sherlock heard the audible snap in his neck. He looked completely thunderstruck.

Sherlock took a step forward, taking care not to spook John. But he had to get closer, he couldn’t stay away, not with all he knew right now.

“And you’re an idiot,” he went on, the affection in his voice soothing the sting of his words.

Unable to resist the pull any longer, he strode forward until he was close enough to feel John’s warmth. He delicately took his hands in his, warming them up.

“What…” John started but Sherlock cut him off.

“Hush. My turn to speak. You’ve been honest with me, I’ll gladly do the same if you don’t mind,” he softly said, a teasing smile quirking up his lips.

John only nodded, looking completely dazed.

“You’re…”

Now that the time has come to say out loud what he has privately thought for months – or has it been years? – Sherlock found himself overwhelmed. How to describe what John represented in his eyes? His heart raced in his chest.

“You’re everything to me.”

John’s gaze widened further if such a thing was possible and Sherlock hesitated. Maybe it hasn’t been such a great idea to take the plunge in such a grandiloquent way. He should have started small, taking baby steps and…

No. It wasn’t his way – and it wasn’t John’s either. They’ve always been “all or nothing”, taking risks since their first meeting.

“What happened to “I’m married to my work”, then?” John asked, breaking the silence between them.

Sherlock took his time to answer, raising instead John’s hands to his lips and brushing butterfly kisses on his reddened knuckles.

“Sherlock, God help me, if you don’t answer me, I…”

What John intended to do in this case was unclear, but the emotion rising in his gaze was transparent for Sherlock’s eyes.

“I fell in love with you, that’s what happened. You’re my friend, my partner, my confidante. My caretaker, if Mycroft is to be believed…”

A faint smile bloomed on John’s lips.

“I thought I wasn’t to utter his name again?”

“I would rather you say mine,” Sherlock whispered. “In the loudest voice you can muster.”

He felt rather than saw John swallowing hard.

“You’re such a tease.”

“Oh no, dear Doctor. I’m flirting with you. Wooing, courting you, telling you how dear you’ve become to me. You deserve to hear every little thing I’ve ever thought about you – How I love hearing you sing in the shower, even if your voice is frankly atrocious…”

“Sherlock!”

“That’s completely true and you know it. How I miss your voice, your presence when you’re unable to come with me on a crime scene. (He lowered his voice.) How sometimes watching your hands when you’re cooking or typing on your computer makes me so hard I’m forced to shut myself in my room…”

John moaned his name and it took every ounce of Sherlock’s self-control not to back him against the wall and to ravish him. He pulled back instead just enough to see John’s face. He didn’t let himself be distracted (much) by John’s hungry gaze or the way he was staring at his mouth.

“What do you say, John? Can we take this risk together? Because if you think for one second I’m not as involved as you are…”

John freed one of his hands, putting his forefinger on Sherlock’s lips and asking for his silence.

“Yes, we can. I want you, Sherlock, but most of all, I want this, this something we’ve always ignored until now. Just… tell me that if anything arises, if you don’t feel comfortable… You’ll tell me. Tell me you’re not going to hide yourself from me anymore.”

They were both trembling, gripping each other’s hand as if they were both lost at sea, this link between them the only lifeline they had.

“I promise you, John,” Sherlock fervently replied. “I swear I’m…”

The rest of his sentence was suddenly muffled under John’s mouth. He has pulled Sherlock down, standing on the balls of his feet, and he was kissing him. Kissing him with a fervour Sherlock hasn’t expected, which ignited deep in him something fierce.

Something _hungry_.

He kissed John back, sucking on his lower lip, letting himself taste – finally! – the thin, rosy skin which has so prominently figured in his fantasies.

He heard John’s hitch in his breath, felt his hands roaming over the back of his neck, stroking his cheek, his neck.

Sherlock was lost. He wasn’t even aware that he was moving until he felt the wall of a nearby house against the hand he has put on John’s head, stroking his hair.

Oh.

Yes.

His hips canted up, pushing his hard cock against John’s hip.

“Sherlock!” John cried out, pulling himself away from the kiss.

They were panting in each other’s mouth, taking the time to watch the other.

Their puffy, red lips, the colour high in their cheeks, the longing and the lust in their eyes.

It was perfect.

“We can’t do this here,” John groaned.

“Not up for a bit of public sex, doctor?” Sherlock teased, biting down gently on John’s earlobe.

A small gesture with such wonderful consequences, he found out after John raised his head in surrender, baring his neck to Sherlock’s avid mouth.

“Oh… Sher… Stop!”

Although it has been a moan rather than an order, he immediately complied, reining in his desire to bite and suck, marking the tender skin as his. He brushed an almost chaste kiss on John’s cheek.

“Whatever you want,” he whispered.

“Oh, trust me,” John chuckled, “you don’t know what I want right now.”

“I can make an educated guess,” Sherlock retorted, playfully nudging John’s nose with his. “But I’m afraid it’s not going you to help you with this,” he said, his gaze directed at John’s erection currently tenting his pants.

“Definitely not,” John agreed before kissing him sweetly. “Come on, you menace. We have a room waiting for us.”

Sherlock kept one of John’s hands in his, refusing to let it go, and was rewarded with a bright smile. It felt wonderful to finally be allowed all these little gestures, displays of affection he wasn’t even aware he has longed to do.

Finally being allowed to show your true colours.

“A room with a _single_ bed in it,” he silkily whispered in John’s ear.

John’s blush didn’t abate afterwards for five minutes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the mood for an AU, slightly angsty (with a happy ending) story? Consider checking my other WIP "He's looking at you... again" - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678/chapters/31257855


	16. Chapter 16

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I think you've waited long enough :)

They stumbled in their room, whispering very loud “Shhhhh!” and stealing kisses when they thought the other wasn’t expecting them – a completely silly game. John was feeling giddy with excitement, happiness fizzing in his whole body like bubbles of champagne. He was so sure Sherlock and him, entwined as they were right now, have discovered somehow the way of negating gravity and floating high above the ground he was honestly surprised when he tripped against an unseen bump underneath the hotel’s carpet.

Sherlock caught him before he could even think he was falling.

“Easy, doctor,” he whispered against John’s heated skin. “I’m afraid I can’t do without your expert skills tonight…”

Back instinctively arched against Sherlock’s hand stroking him along his spine, fingers grazing his jeans’ waistband – how he wanted that hand to go lower, _much_ lower than that! – John fisted both hands in Sherlock’s coat, pulling him down until this damned luscious mouth of Sherlock was within his reach and managed to completely lose himself in the heated, hungry, bruising kiss which ensued.

Tongue dancing against Sherlock’s, exploring the sweetness of this mouth he has so often dreamed of, teeth pulling delicately Sherlock’s lower lip, John tried to pour in this kiss everything he has ever felt for the crazy guy he was holding so strongly in his arms.

The endless admiration, the devotion, the loyalty, the desire, lust and love so entwined in his soul he couldn’t resist anymore. Especially when he could feel in Sherlock’s throat, vibrating against his hand, these little, incoherent moans, slipping out of Sherlock’s mouth every time each of them was pulling back to take a breath before delving once again.

They kissed and kissed again, lips smashing, teeth nipping, hands roaming all over their bodies. They were wild, so high with the rising tide swelling in their bodies, their souls they simply couldn’t stop.

They were giving themselves to the other.

And there was no turning back.

 _Helovesmehelovesmehelovesme_ was playing constantly in John’s mind, fuelling with every word his overwhelming desire, making him forget every trace of caution or restraint.

He wanted to devour Sherlock. Devouring him whole, feeling his naked skin against his, hearing him moan, scream and beg, contemplating his lithe body glistening with sweat and spunk – _mineminemine!_ – before ordering him to open these damn long legs of his and finally – finally! – slipping inside…

A homecoming he could nearly feel on his lips, his desire, his need for it vibrating in every bone of his, rising in his blood.

Sherlock chose that moment to rub the hardness in his pants against John’s hip and the fantasy developing in John’s mind veered off course, taking a whole but no less delicious other path.

Sherlock’s big hands on his ass, his clever, nimble fingers creeping downwards, exploring every secret of his intimacy, rubbing the sensitive skin there, teasing him until John couldn’t stand anymore…

He moaned, canting his hips up, breaking the kiss.

Gasping for air, baring his neck to Sherlock, who shamelessly took advantage of it, rubbing his stubble against John’s sensitive neck before sucking on it mercilessly.

“What were you thinking of just now?” he whispered in John’s ear, his voice a weapon of mass destruction, setting fire on John’s remaining nerves. “Tell me, John, what do you fantasize about when you’re stroking yourself in your bed?”

While making love to John’s neck and ear, licking him, branding him as his, Sherlock’s left hand has crept leisurely downwards, rubbing through the thick fabric of John’s woollen jumper his collarbone, his nipples before drawing insistent circles on his stomach. John has instinctively tried to pull in the soft padding on his belly before calling himself an idiot. Who was he trying to impress? It was Sherlock, who knew him like the back of his hand, not some one-night conquest! He let go of everything, garbled sounds echoing in his half-open mouth while waves after waves of pleasure were crashing into him, running over on another until John was nothing else than a total wreck, trembling under Sherlock’s touch.

* * *

 

“Tell me, John…”

That voice.

That voice should be forbidden.

“I’m…” he managed to articulate. “Not going to last if you keep this up…”

Sherlock let out a dark chuckle before pulling back just enough to meet John’s completely dazed gaze. Himself looked a right mess – swollen lips, wet with saliva, red cheeks, blown pupils in his clear eyes.

John has never loved him more than right now.

“Don’t you understand?” Sherlock replied, his words ringing with sincerity. “Now is the start of our life together. I don’t care if you’re not going to last more than 30 seconds if I do that…”

Completely mesmerized by Sherlock’s face as well as his words, John could only look when he boldly put his right hand on John’s cock, rubbing it in all the right ways through his jeans.

Gosh. If John has thought Sherlock’s current onslaught on his senses has been devastating, it was nothing though compared to this.

He barely heard and felt Sherlock pulling his zipper down, gasping when Sherlock’s hand finally found his prize.

“Let it go, John. Don’t hide. That’s what you asked me earlier, didn’t you?”

John gritted his teeth before trying to utter:

“I can’t… tell you… any fantasy…I might have…”

“Very true, John,” Sherlock whispered, languidly kissing John’s parted lips, a stark contrast with his hand’s frenzied pulls on John’s cock.

And then he abruptly stopped, to John’s utter horror.

“Sherlock!” he cried out.

“Shhhh….”

“I swear, if you’re going to leave me like this…”

“Don’t be silly,” Sherlock said against his skin, his hand still a warm weight around John’s hard, weeping cock. Damned. He has been so close…

“But it would a be shame,” Sherlock went on, punctuating each word with a nip of his teeth and a soothing kiss afterwards, “not to hear whatever dreams you might have about me…”

John concealed his smile. Oh, well. Two could play this game, he thought, not resisting the impulse to cant his hips upwards, plunging into Sherlock’s tight fist.

“Cheater,” Sherlock smiled. “Tell me, John. I want to hear it.”

It was the raw need in his lover’s voice which more than anything spurred John on, giving him the final impulse to unlock the naughty, downright dirty images which have ever crossed his mind as far as Sherlock was concerned.

He put both hands on Sherlock’s backside, stroking the firm globes before squeezing them. And before Sherlock could say “Cheater” again, he started.

“I want to suck you off at a crime scene, when you’re finished spouting your deductions and impressing everyone with your brilliance. I want to be on my knees before you, my hands trembling because you look so put-together, almost inaccessible. But you won’t be, Sherlock, not for me, will you?”

“Johnnn…”

It was only a whisper but John grinned, especially when he could feel Sherlock’s hand stroking once again his hard member at a much slower pace.

Up. Down.

It was dirty.

Completely delicious.

Relentless desire was buzzing through his whole body, but John found the necessary strength to rein it in as he picked another beloved fantasy of his.

“I want you completely naked on your bed,” he said, licking Sherlock’s feverish skin before stealing another heated kiss. “You will lie spread-eagled, blindfolded, already trembling because you don’t know what to expect.”

Sherlock moaned.

His hand sped up.

“You will… Oh God… Sher…”

“Don’t stop!”

“I will look at you. I mean, look at you as much as I want and you won’t be able to refuse me, will you?”

A sharp “No” echoed in the room.

A rhythmic, slick sound followed – precome was easing Sherlock’s way.

John swallowed hard. He could feel the tension rising in his whole body, his balls tightening.

“And when I finally look my fill, I will order you to lie on your front. I will put myself between your legs, my hands will stroke your ass. I will spread you open and I will rim you until you’re crying and begging for release.”

“John!”

His hand was now a blur on John’s cock. Pleasure was stifling him, but John resisted, he didn’t want to go under now. Not when the words were already rolling on his tongue.

“And when I considered you’ve cried and begged enough… Oh… I will pull my zipper down and pull my cock out. I will be as hard as I am now. You will raise your hips, begging me to fuck you…”

He turned his head, biting on Sherlock’s neck.

“And that’s exactly what I’ll do. Fucking you until you’ve screamed himself hoarse, until every neighbour of ours has heard you loud and clear, until I’ve marked you so thoroughly as mine everyone in London will know it!”

He couldn’t hold on any longer.

He was coming, thick spurts staining his shirt, Sherlock’s hand. Sherlock himself was frantic, his desperate cries muffled against John’s sweaty, abused neck, rubbing himself shamelessly against John.

They were both coming, John realized.

He grinned.

It was ecstasy as he had never known before.

 

* * *

 

“You have a dirty mind, I’ve never guessed,” Sherlock idly whispered.

They’ve finally found the strength to undress, getting off their stained clothes, before slipping under the sheets. To John’s great pleasure – he has done his best to hide it from Sherlock, but as always, it has been in vain – Sherlock has directly pulled him close, cuddling like some big, sleek cat, his curls in complete disarray. John was still able to smell the persistent odour of his cum on Sherlock’s skin and one dark, primitive part of him was purring with contentment.

“Liar,” he replied, planting a kiss on Sherlock’s forehead.

He obtained a chuckle in reply.

“All right… I’ve hoped for it, actually.”

John turned on his right side, facing his lover.

His lover.

Such marvellous words.

“And are you satisfied?”

“Fishing for compliments?” Sherlock retorted before leaning in and putting his lips on John’s, his tongue already asking for his mouth. John was only too happy to grant him access, groaning when he felt his cock responding.

Sherlock abruptly pulled back but before John could protest, he raised one slim leg, effectively straddling John.

“Now is the time for one of _my_ fantasies…”

John was sure he was grinning like an utter fool but couldn’t bring himself to care. Instead he stroked these strong, utterly delectable thighs.

“Which one?” he asked, his tone already rough with desire.

Sherlock shot him a wolfish smile.

“Breaking in a new bed with you, of course!”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> In the mood for an AU, slightly angsty (with a happy ending) story? Consider checking my other WIP "He's looking at you... again" - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678/chapters/31257855


	17. Chapter 17

The light, on the year’s last day, was shyly rising, casting a grey hue on Mycroft’s tired face. He delicately rubbed his eyes with his forefinger, wondering for the hundredth time why he has remained here, slumped back in this completely uncomfortable sofa while a perfectly appropriate bed was waiting for him in his flat.

Why, indeed, he mused as he peered again at the sleeping form of Lestrade – Gregory, his mind rebelliously provided. Gregory who was currently softly snoring, lips parted, sprawled in the armchair where he has suddenly collapsed in the middle of what Mycroft has judged as a bloody good snog. A snog, he thought sourly, which certainly should not have been interrupted by a bout of drunken sleep.

What was even worse was the fact that instead of throwing a fit – with all the dignity he would usually have used, of course – and punishing bloody Gregory’s cheekiness, he has covered him up, taking care that the detective did not catch a cold, before sitting on this sofa and watching over Gregory as a dragon would have done with his treasure.

He let out a tired groan.

Thank his lucky stars Sherlock wasn’t in London.

Mycroft didn’t dare imagining his little brother’s reaction if he has caught him like this, enduring a sleepless night while (not so) patiently waiting for Gregory to wake up.

_And then what? Do you think he’ll welcome you with open arms and call you “beautiful” again? You fool! He’s more likely to repay you in kind for what you have done to him earlier, throwing you out before calling John to laugh about your silly crush!_

He clenched his umbrella’s handle in both hands, gripping it like a drowning man clutched a lifeline.

He should have walked away.

But he didn’t, remaining here against his better judgement, because the silken memory of Gregory’s words has completely ensnared him.

_I want you in my bed, yes. I also want you in this sofa, when we’ll cuddle together while watching telly. I want you in my kitchen, looking all prim and proper while I’ll prepare breakfast and pour you a cup of whatever you drink in the morning._

Mycroft closed his eyes.

Hearing once again Greg’s soft, heated voice, each of his words ringing true and engraving itself on Mycroft’s heart.

_I want you in my office late one day, when there’s no one around but you and me and that we finally have a bit of time for us. Tell me, Mycroft, do you think you’d enjoy me getting on my knees?_

He groaned, arousal flaring in his veins.

The memory of the kiss they’ve shared didn’t help either.

Gregory has begged him so endearingly… How could he have resisted?

He opened his eyes again, torn once again between the burning desire to believe that Gregory has opened his heart to him, that he truly wanted what he has told Mycroft and the much more pragmatic voice whispering in his ear that he was truly stupid if he trusted a man’s drunken declarations.

_You’re going to be humiliated._

_You should walk away from all this, it’s still time!_

But Mycroft stayed put.

Truth was, he wanted to be here. He wanted to watch Gregory waking up, to read on his face whether he still remembered what happened between them last night.

If the copper was going to act defensively, asking him in his “Don’t talk nonsense to me” voice – Mycroft was loath to admit it, but he always got a bit hard whenever he got the opportunity to hear Gregory barking commands – what he was doing here, fine then. He would get up, put on his best Iceman mask and go back to his flat, where he could privately nurse his wounded hope.

He could do it, no problem – nothing he hasn’t experienced before, after all.

Mycroft could already see in his mind’s eye how it would unfold afterwards.

How he would conceal his embarrassment and hurt behind his coldest veneer, how Gregory would react, maybe willing to reach out at first – a pitiful attempt at “no hard feelings between us” – before realizing that it was no use.

That Mycroft _was_ the real bastard everyone believed him to be.

He would at least get one silver lining from this whole disaster – Gregory would stop being Gregory, the nice, charming policeman, with a heart of gold and a teasing smile. He would become Lestrade, an useful tool among a thousand others to prod in the right direction when it would be required.

Mycroft’s heart would stop racing in his chest whenever he glimpsed this dark gaze or heard this slightly rough voice.

He would leave all of this behind and wouldn’t it be for the best, he thought, trying to ignore the pain spreading across his chest at this very thought.

He was so lost in his thoughts he didn’t notice right away Greg has stopped snoring.

It was only when he heard a deep breath followed by a mumbled “Outch” that he realized it was too late to flee.

He looked up at the man who didn’t know he held his heart between his hands.

The man who was currently peering blearily at him.

“Mycroft?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, I leave you with this cliffhanger... but in my defence, these last weeks have been very busy (with good and not so good things) so I take whatever time is left for writing :)  
> I promise I'll try to finish this story very soon :)
> 
> and in the meantime... Why don't you enjoy an AU, slightly angsty (with a happy ending) story? Consider checking my other WIP "He's looking at you... again" - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678/chapters/31257855


	18. Chapter 18

Greg rubbed vigorously his bleary eyes before opening them once again.

Nothing has changed during the few seconds which have elapsed.

Mycroft was still seated on his worn-out sofa, looking completely out of his depth and adorably concerned at the same time. Sherlock’s brother peered at him with a slight frown, before a light flush spread across his pale skin. He looked away.

“Detective Inspector…”

“Come on, Greg interrupted him, trying to get up without looking like he weighed a thousand tons (as he was feeling right now), “that’s no way to address the man you’ve kissed last night, is it?”

He was then treated to a rare sight – Mycroft Holmes rendered speechless, eyes wide, cheeks turning red.

“I… You…”

Greg raised an eyebrow, stifling the smile threatening to bloom on his lips. He wanted to tease the man, not to get him to run for the hills.

“Did you think I would forget?” he softly said, padding along behind the sofa before leaning in and whispering in Mycroft’s ear. “I’m not _such_ a lightweight, you know.”

He pulled back, observing with growing pleasure the rising flush in Mycroft’s cheeks and the slight gasp he involuntarily gave. He fought the temptation to walk round the sofa and to kneel in front of the gorgeous man who was seated there, letting his hands stroking softly these long legs through the trousers’ fabric and…

_You better stop there, Gregory Lestrade, unless you want to completely spook him with the bulge currently tenting your pants._

He smiled for himself, turning away and walking to the kitchen.

“Come on, let’s get breakfast!”

“You don’t have to…” Mycroft started but the protest died on his lips when Greg shot him a smile he hoped was charming, especially at this hour.

“That’s the least I can offer, especially when it appears you’ve watched over me all night…”

It seemed that the smile and the teasing voice had the desired effect, as Mycroft blinked at him, before giving a slight nod.

“Very well,” he conceded. “That’s… very kind of you.”

Greg ducked his head, truly pleased with himself. Not every day you got to wake up in front of the man pulling the strings and convince him to say.

This morning after – even if they’ve done nothing else than kissing – was already shaping up as the best he has ever known.

 

* * *

 

It turned out – quite delightfully, in Greg’s eyes – that Mycroft could hold his own as far as preparing breakfast was concerned.

“I sometimes bake whenever the opportunity arises,” Mycroft mumbled as he looked at the bacon sizzling in the pan. Greg suspected baking wasn’t the only thing Mycroft was enjoying doing in his kitchen but he preferred to keep mum about it, taking the opportunity instead to slip inside his bathroom and getting ready as fast as he decently could. Thank God his hangover was mild. He put on jeans and a blue sweater which, according to his sister who has offered it on Christmas, “brought out his eyes” and hastened to join his guest in the kitchen.

It seemed his sister was right, as he caught Mycroft eyeing him up and down before hastily turning away. Greg concealed a smile on his own, enjoying the opportunity to brush against the perfectly-dressed vision on the pretext of reaching out for the cupboard where the plates were stored.

Mycroft visibly shivered, Greg smirked before clearing his throat and asking

“Do you want to take a shower?”

Mycroft didn’t answer right away, glancing first at himself, then at Greg.

_Don’t tell me you’re thinking of bailing out, Mycroft Holmes. I’ve waited far too long for this moment, you know._

Greg did his best not to betray his thoughts but something must have transpired on his face, since Mycroft, after having glanced at him, relaxed a little bit, a shadow of a smile flickering on his lips. The DI bit the inside of his cheek, resisting the impulse to lean forward, drawing this lovely man in his arms and kissing him like there was no tomorrow.

Instead he forced himself to stay put and to wait for Mycroft’s answer.

“It would be… welcome, actually.”

Greg wasn’t sure anymore if they were still talking about his offer or about something else, but he didn’t care very much as he let what was surely a silly grin creasing his lips. Mycroft  first looked at him with amazement in his gaze before attempting to smile back at him. A worthy attempt, Greg considered.

“Come on, then,” he said, turning to the stove and starting on the scrambled eggs. “Take your time, I’m not going anywhere!”

_And I hope it’ll be the case for you as well._

* * *

 

Breakfast was a quiet affair – not because they didn’t anything to talk about. On the contrary – they have plenty to talk about. Greg was burning with the desire to ask everything what has been on his mind these last days, but he restrained himself, which was quite a feat for him. He who has been described more than once as “charging first, asking questions later” could however see that it wasn’t a good strategy to use with the man facing him, who was absentmindedly fidgeting with his shirt’s collar.

The man who has ordered his guards to throw him out of his office before he later that day set foot in Greg’s flat and kissed him.

_Enigma, thy name is Mycroft Holmes._

As if he has sensed the turn Greg’s thoughts were taking, Mycroft glanced up at him, taking the time to dab his mouth with his napkin.

“You have questions,” he whispered.

“It could wait until you’ve finished,” Greg offered, emptying his glass of orange juice in one gulp.

His unexpected guest shook his head.

“I want to hear them.”

“Really?” Greg teased. “Because I might take advantage, you know, asking for state secrets…”

He hasn’t intended it to sound so flirty. But Greg couldn’t question the fact that seeing Mycroft’s gaze darkening in front of him was a most _welcome_ experience.

God almighty. What he wouldn’t give to see how Mycroft looked if he took the liberty to invite him in his bedroom.

With an effort he got his mind out of the gutter.

“Okay, then… I’m sorry if it’s a bit blunt, but why did you come here last night? Not that I’m not happy to see you here, mind you, but I got the impression earlier I wasn’t really welcome anymore…”

He has tried to be as gentle as possible with this awful reminder, but it didn’t stop Mycroft from flushing crimson. He looked down at his hands folded in his lap.

“I… It seems that…” he stammered before letting out a great sigh and looking at Greg in the eye. “I owe you an apology.”

Greg stared at him in amazement.

_Should have recorded that. John would never believe me!_

“Say that again?”

“I said I owe you an apology,” Mycroft repeated, his voice gaining confidence. “I shouldn’t have reacted the way I did, it was most… rude of me to treat you like this and…”

He swallowed hard. It was obvious he was quite inexperienced in the art of apologizing and Greg was unexpectedly charmed by it.

_You’re disgustingly besotted_ , his mind told him before Greg ordered him to shut up.

“I… You… I didn’t know how to deal with…” Mycroft abruptly stopped, levelling a beseeching gaze at him.

Greg couldn’t resist him anymore.

He instinctively reached out, putting his hand on Mycroft’s, who startled a bit before relaxing and turning his hand palm upwards, eliciting a shiver from Greg.

“It’s okay, gorgeous. I got you.”

Mycroft’s cheeks reddened even further.

“You… You called me like this before.”

“I know,” Greg whispered, his gaze focused on Mycroft. “I didn’t forget. Nor have I forgotten what I’ve offered you then.”

Both men stared at one another, a nearly electric tension sparking between them.

“It’s still on the table, you know,” he added.

He admired the fact that his voice didn’t shake, didn’t betray his nerves.

He tried to look composed – a hard feat, since everything in him was screaming _pleasepleasedontletmedownpleaseacceptitacceptme!_

He could already imagine in his mind’s eye how he could let Mycroft in, not only in his bed or his kitchen, but in his everyday life. How both of them could build something together – something nice and tender, something to be cherished and nourished in the intimacy of their home. Something which would defy everyone’s expectations, which would resist every attempt at labelling it or giving it a name.

_Can you see it too, Mycroft?_

Greg hasn’t realized he was holding his breath until he saw the answer to his question in Mycroft’s gaze.

A “ _Yes_ ” which left him breathless, delirious joy running through his whole being.

A _Yes_ which was written in the shy smile on Mycroft’s lips, in his fingers tightening a little on Greg’s wrist, in the gentleness of his expression.

Goodness.

How has he never realized how truly beautiful the man was?

He was so lost in his admiration that he nearly missed Mycroft’s words when he said

“You asked me earlier why I came here… Do you know you have Sherlock to thank for it?”

Greg blinked.

“What… You’re kidding!”

“Oh, I assure you I tell you the truth,” Mycroft whispered, getting slowly up while taking care not to let go of Greg’s hand. He gave a gentle tug at his sleeve and Greg obeyed without question, heart already pounding in his chest as he let Mycroft draw him closer.

“Come on,” Mycroft whispered, leaning in until his lips were grazing Greg’s cheek, “Let me tell you all about it…”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Nearly the end - I've still got one chapter, because I can't resist torturing Sherlock a little bit more :)
> 
> and in the meantime... Why don't you enjoy an AU, slightly angsty (with a happy ending) story? Consider checking my other WIP "He's looking at you... again" - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678/chapters/31257855 :-)


	19. Chapter 19

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And it's a wrap! A MASSIVE thank you to all the readers, who have left comments and Kudos, you've been a true inspiration during that journey <3 <3 <3  
> Hope you all enjoy this last chapter!

_Eighteen months later_

 

“Sherlock…”

“No!”

“Sherlock, you promised…”

“I don’t care! Besides, I was drunk at that time!”

There was a sudden shuffle of footsteps on the other side of the door against which John was leaning and during a brief moment, he hoped that his mad genius of a lover would finally come to his senses and open the locked door.

Instead he heard, whispered in an acid voice:

“And don’t think I’ve forgotten you’ve left me that day to my own devices, an easy prey for _dear Gregory’s_ machinations!”

John instantly slapped his hand over his mouth, successfully stifling the laugh bubbling in his throat in spite of the circumstances. He doubted Sherlock would appreciate or that he was even able to see the humour in that situation. However, he would never forget that day, as he set his eyes on his completely inebriated lover, who was watching Greg with a dopey smile. His glazed eyes had lit up at John’s sight.

“John, John! Gav… I mean Grant… Oh fuck, what’s your name again? Oh, never mind then! That man over there has asked me to make a speeeeeech!”

John could only stare first at his lover, then at Greg, who was himself completely sober and who has smirked at him.

Bastard.

Of course, the day after, Sherlock has loudly denied having ever accepted such a ludicrous offer. Unfortunately for him – and John – Greg has thought of everything.

“Useful little application, that one,” he has said in a good-nature voice, which barely concealed his vibrant glee, as he played over and over again the recording of Sherlock’s indignant “Why do you say I can’t? Of course, I can make a bloody speech!”

A screech of pure despair has echoed then in the flat – Mrs Hudson has been so badly startled she has dropped her whole porcelain tea set on the floor, which resulted in two weeks of silently furious landlady and no offerings of any kind for the 221b.

Life for John would have been very dire indeed, if Sherlock hasn’t unexpectedly channelled his anger at having been fooled by the DI into vigorous bouts of angry sex.

Since then John could never think about it without becoming immediately half-hard in his pants.

A loud thump behind the closed door brought him back to the present reality – which was turning out to be very complicated indeed, if Sherlock persisted in refusing to hear him out.

“Sherlock…”

Only silence answered him and John smothered a sigh.

“Sherlock, I was only away for half an hour at the most that day. When I came back, you already were two sheets to the wind.”

Not my fault you’re such a light weight, he thought sullenly.

Not his fault either Greg has pounced on that perfect opportunity like a cat on a mouse.

In spite of his increasing annoyance at his bastard of a best friend, John had to admit the DI has played it perfectly. No doubt his soon-to-be husband has briefed him beforehand.

And now Sherlock has committed himself to deliver a speech at his brother’s wedding.

“You know, it could have been worse.”

A sharp intake of breath on the other side told John Sherlock has stopped pacing round his room and was waiting for him to carry on.

_Got you._

“Instead of Anthea, Mycroft could have chosen _you_ as best man…”

He only had time to step back before a loud crash occurred against the wooden door. A small part of John’s mind deduced – successfully – that the night lamp on Sherlock’s – which has become theirs, since their trip in France – has not survived his owner’s ire.

John’s cry of protest was drowned by his lover roaring “NOT HELPING!”.

John refused to cower however.

“Oi, you fucker! I forbid you to destroy anything else, you hear me? Not my fault you made a mistake…”

“Of course, it is!”

“No, it isn’t! Stop behaving like a child and get out of your room! We’re going to be late!”

“Which is a perfect solution!”

John bit his lower lip, praying that whichever deity willing to hear him would give him a helping hand.

Right, then. Time to bring out the big guns.

“Sherlock,” he repeated in the most authoritative voice he could muster, “I swear to God if you’re not out in five minutes, I’d suggest your name as godfather the moment Greg and your brother’ll speak about adoption.”

The sole reply he received was a disbelieving snort.

“Oh please! Did you see Mycroft’s face when he discovered one of his precious cats was pregnant? He was already in over his head with a litter of kittens on his hands!”

* * *

 

John gritted his teeth.

He had only one more card to play, he mused, as he pulled the little box out of his pocket.

Something he has dearly wished he could bring up in other circumstances – like, for instance, after Sherlock’s speech, when the dance floor would be full and that he would have successfully coaxed his lover into slow dancing with him.

Gazing at him with soulful eyes, telling him without words how much he loved him, how much he was hoping they would have a long life together.

Then John would have slowly brought up the box before getting down on a knee and finally saying the words he has thought about for months now.

_“William Sherlock Holmes, would you…?”_

“What? Is that all? No more taunts? Have you already exhausted every threat your boring little mind might have come up with? I’m _so_ disappointed, John…”

Of course, he has forgotten he was sometimes living with a true demon.

John sighed, fighting the temptation to snap back at his lover.

Instead, he took a deep breath.

Sherlock was always taking for granted the fact that John would stay with him no matter what. It was high time that John disabused him of this notion.

“You’re right, Sherlock,” he answered, taking care that his voice sounded as flippant as possible. “I give up. You win.”

Sherlock didn’t reply. John could just imagine him at that moment, looking intently at the door between them.

Waiting for the other shoe to drop.

“You can stay here,” he carried on. “I’ll be sure to pass Mycroft your regrets, although I’m sure he’ll be quite busy and won’t really care after all you haven’t bothered to show up…”

A slight huff echoed behind the door.

John smiled.

He took a few steps backwards, as if he was walking to the door.

“You’re going, then?” Sherlock asked in his best “I really don’t care” voice.

“Of course. I’m Greg’s best man after all. Unlike you, I know how to keep my promise.”

It was a low blow, really, but what else could he do?

“Fine!” Sherlock cried out. “Leave me here on my own, then! You’d better go now, you wouldn’t like to be late for _dear Gregory_!”

John couldn’t help but wince.

He has rarely heard Sherlock’s voice laced with so much venom.

“I’m so glad we finally see eye to eye,” he forced himself to reply.

A light growl rose up on the other side of the door.

John took a few more steps, edging away to the door.

_Show time._

“Of course, I’m going to miss your company. Would have been nice to see you at your best, all dressed up. I might even have been tempted by some… quality time in a closet or elsewhere.”

“John, you’re not going to make me…”

“But then,” John cut him off, “I’m sure there would be plenty of people at that reception. _Free_ people, if you get my…”

He didn’t have time to finish that sentence.

The door was unlocked in a second and a furious, lightly dishevelled Sherlock appeared. John had time to glimpse his blazing eyes, his flushed cheeks and lips - has he bitten them? – before he was drawn into a possessive embrace and snogged within an inch of his life.

God.

As if he would look elsewhere when he had _him_ at home.

Sherlock abruptly pulled back, hard eyes focused on John’s face, voice vibrant with indignation:

“Take it back, take it all back, I forbid you to…”

He suddenly stopped when John popped up the little velvet box just before his nose.

“William Sherlock Holmes,” he whispered, “Would you marry me?”

He forced himself to stay put as he observed his lover, who has been rendered speechless.

Such a rare sight.

Such a beautiful sight, he mused, as Sherlock’s gaze widened, looking back and forth between John’s face and the box.

“Is it… I… You…”

_Oh my, I have broken him._

“Yes, you silly man. It’s all true,” he softly said, planting a gentle kiss on his lover’s cheek. “Now what do you say, hum? Should we be husband and... husband?”

* * *

 

In the end, they arrived late to the wedding’s ceremony.

But it was all worth it, Mycroft instantly deduced, as he saw his brother’s dazzling smile and the shiny, silver new ring on his finger.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The pregnant cat mention is a reference to Mottlemoth's and green_violin_bow's adorable story "Grandcats,Mine" that you can find here: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13887771  
> If you haven't read it yet, give it a try :)
> 
> and in the meantime... Why don't you enjoy an AU, slightly angsty (with a happy ending) story? Consider checking my other WIP "He's looking at you... again" - http://archiveofourown.org/works/13614678/chapters/31257855 :-)


End file.
